Floriography: The Language of Flowers
by twisted-sheets
Summary: US/UK fics about flowers and their meanings. A chance encounter in the kitchen may be the only chance America would ever have to figure what his feelings truly are, and what he really wants. Last chapter!
1. Story 1: Dogwood

**Title:** _**Floriography: The Language of Flowers**_

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.

**Pairing: **America × England

**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF.

**Author's notes:** A series of America × England drabbles for the kink meme on flowers and their meanings. Ugh, de-anoning with this because I CAN.

**1. Dogwood**

In the wilder patch of America's garden, there is a particular shrub that he is very fond of, partly because when he first saw it, it was almost the same size as he was, and because his friends, especially the birds, love to feed on its red berries.

He also likes it because it helps him know when England comes and goes.

"Chaucer called it the whipple-tree, but I believe nowadays they call it dogwood," replies England when America asked what its name was when they were having tea beside it in the garden one morning after he arrived after months of being away. The shrub is covered in pretty white blooms, as it always is when England arrives.

America doesn't know Chaucer and wants to ask who he is, but that would mean England talking about someone else other than himself or America, and he didn't want that. He and England only have very little time to spend together, and America does not intend to waste it. So he asks, instead, "Why is it called that? It doesn't look anything like a dog."

"They used the wood for hilts of daggers," England explains, "so they called it dagwood. As time went on, however, dagwood changed to dogwood, as with the nature of spoken words."

_Wow_. England has answers for _everything_. "Do you have them at your place too?"

England nods. "Other than hilts, they're made into arrows or shuttles for looms. Some even make preserves from the berries."

It's America's turn to nod. "My friends think the berries are delicious." Especially the little birds and the raccoons and squirrels and bunnies.

England laughs and says, "Is that so?" then sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder, kisses his hair, and whispers in the softest, gruffest of voices, "I've missed you."

--

When the dogwood's leaves and twigs turn a bloody red, he knows it was time for England to go.

America also knows it is an unbecoming action at his age, but he still clings on the edges of England's clothes as he leaves, although he knows from experience that it never works. His world is colder without England, and much, much more lonely.

England gives him a small sad smile, and strokes his hair with a soothing hand. "Hush. Don't worry, I'll come back. I always do, don't I?" England crouches so that they're eye to eye, green on blue. "I know you feel lonely, but you still have to keep doing your best and grow strong. Even when I'm not here. Will you promise me that, America?"

America fights back his tears. England wants him to be strong and brave, and crying now would be showing weakness. "Yes. I promise."

--

England does not come back for a long time. But America continues to wait. That is all he could do.

America is rarely in the garden nowadays, as he spends more of his time with his people or working and reading, learning new things. Does this because he wants to, and because he wants to be strong, so when England comes back (and he _will_), he would be so proud of America.

--

One time he does pass by the garden, he nearly slammed into the trunk of the tree.

_Tree_, not shrub, because the dammed thing towered over him now, and he'd gotten pretty tall. Its stem had turned into a trunk almost as wide as him, its twigs into spreading branches that covered the sky and sun.

Absently, he remembers England telling him the wood was used for some sort of weapon, and he wonders if it can be used to make muskets. He should ask England, when he comes back.

He looks up at the blossoming tree, smiling wistfully to himself. He wishes England would come back soon so he could see his tree—and him.

England would be so surprised to see how tall they both had grown.

--

In winter the tree is bare except for snow, and America knows he should chop it down, use it for firewood, his soldiers are freezing, and he is so very cold and he is still at war with England, and he _hurts_ and he just wants this to end, to be _free_, and he should chop the damn tree down, but he couldn't.

--

"Well, at least you've been properly taking care of this place," England remarks as he walks down the hall. "I was afraid you'd ruined it, or filled it with these useless junk of yours."

"Hey, I kinda like those useless junk you're talking about," America grouses at England, but his heart isn't really in it. He was too occupied being…happy to properly insult his former 'guardian'.

It is the first time England steps foot in America's house after all these years. America has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing when he remembers the look England had a few hours ago, when, in a strange whim, he invited him over to his place (but not before America hid all the stuff England gave him that would make him think he was a sentimental idiot or whatever yesterday). It also took a lot of persuasion to get him to accept it, with England saying he's only going so he could be sure America did right with the place, and nothing more.

Now, even with England ranting in front of him about the changes he made, how the carpet is hideous and the furniture does not match, America still can't believe England is in his house again; it only seems like yesterday that America thought this would never happen, that England would always hate him, and that England would always stay _away_.

(What he doesn't know is that England is also feels the same, but would rather die than admit it.)

When they reach the garden, the first thing England notices is the dogwood tree. It isn't hard to miss it, as it is one of the biggest things there, and in full florescence, its blossoms carpeting the grass and shrubs beneath it in velvety white.

"Ah, so this one is still here, then? It's grown so tall!"

England is standing underneath it, his head tilted up, staring at the profusion of white blooms above with half-lidded eyes, as if remembering something. Then he opens them, and shifts his bright emerald gaze to America, and there is a slight smile on his face that made America suddenly feel warm all over, stomach fluttering. "We used to have tea near here, didn't we?"

_We used to_. England used to smile at him like that, before his independence. "Yeah," he says slowly, "we did."

When England has left, America makes a mental note to put a bench and a table under the dogwood tree, so when England visits him again, they could have their snacks (tea for England and coffee for him) there.

As they did before, and, America promises to himself, as they will always_._

**Notes: **

_Floriography_ is another term to refer to the language of flowers. While meanings have been attached to flowers long, long ago, it became a huge fad in the Victorian era, where it became a discreet and tasteful way to convey one's feelings to another.

Dogwood means _endurance_. It also means _love undiminished by adversity_ *winks*. The American dogwood, known also as the flowering dogwood, is also the state flower and tree of Virginia. I like to think America lived in Virginia when he was young.


	2. Story 2: Honeysuckle

**Title:**_**Floriography: The Language of Flowers (2)**_  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*  
**Author's notes:**I forgot to mention these drabbles, while loosely interconnected, aren't arranged in any chronological order or anything.

**2. Honeysuckle**

"Hey, England, England! Hey Englaaaaaa~nd!"

"What is it, America?" Arthur snaps for the umpteenth time for the day, looking up from his book with an irritated scowl. It is summer in his land and it is a scorcher, the kind that usually leaves him parched with thirst and a blinding migraine, and he is trying to have some peace and quiet in the cool shade of his garden, but the blasted American (who came here uninvited, _again_) isn't letting him, and kept on bothering him with his antics and takes all his attention away from what he should be doing, which is trying to relax his poor, fraying, _overheated_ nerves. "What do you want?"

England's eyes go wide when without a another word, America, looms over him, arm seeming to reach above his head, and then, before England could react, he plunks something on his head that slips down to his brow.

"What the bloody hell—" he moves to snatch it off him, but abruptly stops when his fingers close over leaves and stems and…flowers? He turns to America, who is grinning like a loon, blue eyes bright with mischief, making a thumbs-up with both hands.

England yanks the damn thing off, unmindful of America's protests ("Aww! Don't be so mean, England!" "Belt up, America. And who told you you can go about defacing my plants?"). It is a head wreath made out of honeysuckle stems wound around each other to form a ring. America must have gotten the flowers from the one wrapped around the trunk of the ancient hazel tree not far from where they were.

"Idiot. What do you think I am, a girl?" he grumbles out, trying hard not to blush, but he could already feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, warming his cheeks. He inwardly curses his complexion and his own vast knowledge for this indignity. America, oblivious idiot that he is, probably wouldn't understand the true reason _why_ England is blushing.

"Don't take it off! It looks awesome on you! And I worked so hard to make it!" America whines, and he takes the wreath from England's hands, and places it on England's head again, more firmly this time. "Makes you look like one of your pretty imaginary fairy princess."

England's squawk of irritation and protest is interrupted when America suddenly leans closer and kisses him on his open mouth, tongue darting out to tease him, chapped lips pressing gently but firmly against his, and England could taste the sweet nectar of honeysuckle in him. It does not help that in the heat, the honeysuckle's fragrance is strong, and for a moment, it makes England's head reel.

England grips America's arm, resists and tries to break contact by pulling away, but then America cups the nape on his neck and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss, and that makes England close his eyes, and he gives in and kisses America back.

**Notes:**

**Honeysuckles** stand for the _bonds of love_, and for _devotion and fidelity_. In a way, it means, "_Let me bind you—be my captive_." :) Wikipedia says: "The hazel and the honeysuckle signify the two fated lovers Tristan and Isolde in Marie de France's Chevrefoil." In another source: "King Marc buries them together [Tristan and Isolde], and hazel and honeysuckle plants spring from the ground over their hearts and twine together over their grave."

The nectar of most honeysuckle plants are edible, and apparently tastes sweet.


	3. Story 3: Red and White Roses and Irises

**Title:**_**Floriography: The Language of Flowers (3)**_  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*  
**Author's notes:**This is probably my favorite ficlet among them, the one that has the most historical er, hints. This is set sometime during the Battle of Britain.

**3. Roses and Irises**

England stands amidst at the ruins of the Royal Chapel, his heart alternating between soaring from joy and plummeting from sadness.

They had won. Though many believed they would not survive, they had fought back, few as they were against the many, they had _won_.

But, dear God, the _cost_. He could hear his people crying out for their dead even as others exult at their victory. His wounds and burns ache with agonizing pain, his torso wrapped in bandages. His city, _his_ heart, his _London_, has been torn and wrecked by the bombs; even Buckingham Palace did not escape the attacks. He wonders if his own home had been damaged as well — had his unicorn been hurt? His fairies? If they were gone —

No, he tells himself, he must not give in to despair. His enemies have tried to break his will, his people, with this attack, but they had failed. England had won this fight, his enemies had lost, and he is still free. He is still England. He has endured centuries of near constant warfare, of chaos and bloodshed.

He is still the British Empire, and the sodding sun has not yet _set_, damn them _all_.

In the back of his mind, however, doubts and fears linger. Europe is in shambles; France has been occupied, and England has few, if any, allies left in the continent. Could he really still win despite all this? He knows and feels the strength of his people, of their resolve, pulsing in his mind and heart. Even now, despite their pain, they seem unfazed by the attacks, stoically pushing on, living and fighting for their existence, for their way of life.

As always, when confronted with his fears for his people, his thoughts unwillingly drift to America, and the Nation's continuing unwillingness to formally join the war — not that he could blame him, but he cannot help but resent —

"England!"

The familiar voice breaks through his thoughts, and he whips round to face its owner, his heart rate quickening.

England blinks and barely resists the urge to rub his eyes with his gloved hands as he stares at the figure rapidly approaching him, unmindful of the rubble. America. God in his heaven and all his bloody angels, its _America_.

(And yes, this is the part where his heart drops from his chest to his stomach, and then up again and lodges in his throat, and he wonders if this is all a cruel hallucination induced by too much smoke or gas or morphine.)

America was heading towards him, dressed in his pilot's bomber jacket (_Was he up there fighting?_ England asks himself), scarf wrapped 'round his neck (the deep blue one England knitted for him as a gift a while back, the one that made America's eyes bluer than the summer sky, the one he remembers America vowing he would never, ever wear because England made it with his _clumsy_, silly hands), his blonde hair mussed up, as if the wind have been rifling through it for a long time, when he shouldn't be here in the first place.

He knows America has pilots who have defied the neutrality, pretending to be Canada's or the others (and England has been quite good at turning a blind eye at this) to fight with England, but to see the Nation himself, defying his own government's neutrality, standing in front of him —

"What are you doing here?" the words are out of England's mouth before he could stop them, breathless and somewhat higher pitched than his usual voice. He hopes to God America does not notice the note of wonder in it or the bewilderment.

America stops a few feet from him, then shrugs, jacket shifting in his shoulders as he did. "Found out some of my guys are here, and I wanted to see if they were okay," he tells England, blunt and casual, as if he had just been merely seized by a whim and decided to take a stroll and visit his neighbor instead of heading into the dangers of a war he wasn't even formally a part of. "And I was worried," he adds, as if in afterthought.

"They're fine," England says gruffly, referring to the pilots — _not_ England, because who else would America be talking about? "I heard one of them has died though, not a few days past."

"I know." England thinks America would just let it go at that, and England opens his mouth to give his condolences, but he finds a heartbeat later that he is wrong. "But I wasn't talking about them."

_Oh_. England's heart swells and aches and it chokes him, makes it difficult for him to breathe, and he can't speak, doesn't want to give voice to whatever he feels at this..._breach_ of America, this changing of their little game, breaking their own rules. Under the circumstances, a man can assume certain things, can't he? England shouldn't though, because he could be so very _wrong_, and he has been many times in these past months and he can't deal with this kind of disappointment again, and so he shields and deflects and parries.

"Your ambassador was wrong," England tells him, desperate to fill the silence that had stretched between them. He straightens and rights his posture, not looking away from America, even as he bitterly remembers the words of Jittery Joe. Oh, how he wanted to bludgeon the cowardly bastard for his defeatist words. It didn't help that many of his countrymen believed in such drivel, and for the longest time, he thought America believes him, too.

America's lips curl into wry smile, then widens to a grin. "Well, you've always been a stubborn bastard to kill."

"And you've always been the idiot." England takes a step back, determined to end this conversation right now. "You should go back. This isn't your place. What would your people say if they found out you're here and —"

"I didn't believe any of that crap." The light in his blue eyes dims, and suddenly America is somber and reflective, and that stops England's words dead cold, "Kennedy's crap, I mean. I know you better than to think you'd ever give up so easily."

England stares at America, and in the back of his mind he wonders where the hell this is going and if they should go there at all, because England thinks this is the wrong time, the wrong place. But Arthur is tired or running, they've gone too far, and he _truly_ wants to know. So he takes another step, this time closer to him.

"Why are you here, Alfred?"

Alfred replies without pause, voice strong and resolute, and looks at him, straight in the eye. " I want to be here," _for you_, Alfred doesn't say but Arthur hears it anyway, and it makes his head spin, and he has to close his eyes to clear his head, steady his thoughts, and when he opens them, the smirk is back on Alfred's lips, as is the cockiness in his voice, the confidence in his stance. "And besides, heroes...don't let petty stupid things get in the way of things he wants to do, like help out those who need help. Especially when he knows he's in the right."

England's bark of laughter, loud and strong in the empty air, surprises both of them. "I doubt your people and your bosses would be very pleased with your words."

"Heh. You'd be surprised what their reactions would be. They've been listening, you know, on how you guys have dealing with...this." America shrugs. "And Frank and Wild Bill agree with me anyway, so I don't think they'll get mad when they hears what I just said."

"Yes, I know, but you're supposed to be — ah, never mind." England looks up at the gray skies. The morning light is starting to filter through the clouds, into the ruins of chapel, and shines through the floating dust and the smoke, giving the place an unearthly, solemn glow.

"Come on," England says. They should really go inside, find a safe place. Though the attacks have been successfully repelled, one never knows what might happen, and England would never forgive himself if America gets recklessly injured because of him. "We should to get to a shelter. It's still not wise to stay outside. Besides, I need to check on the few things and people, including my royal family." England turns on his heel, expecting America to follow, _not_ to suddenly grip his wrist.

England turns back to him, brows raised in surprise. With a sheepish look on his face, America lets go of his hand (none-too-gently, Arthur absently notes), and then holds out a sorry-looking bouquet England hadn't noticed he was carrying earlier. "Uhm, for you. Because I didn't think I should show my face without some sort of gift, considering how mad you were with me last time I didn't bring any, and Isortofthoughtyouneedcheeringup." The last words came out in a rush, and England could barely make out his words.

England stares at America, then the bouquet, and despite the surreal feel of this (_only_ America would think of giving flowers at such a time), England takes the bouquet (he prays to God America didn't pick this up from some poor man's bombed-out garden or greenhouse), a mix of red and white roses and blue irises — reds, whites, and blues, the colors of America's flag, the colors of England's flag, the United Kingdom's flag. Red and white roses, _together_, and _irises _—

The utter _idiot_. Does he even _realize_ what the hell these flowers mean —

"Uh, I'm sorry it looks like that." There must be strange look on England's face, because America looks somewhat chastened and panicky. "But it's the thought that cou —"

America does not finish what he wants to say, because England grasps the collar of America's jacket in one hand, the edge of his scarf in the other, and pulls him down, and then they are kissing, hungry and eager, bodies pressing close. America is whispering something, it could be England's name, but England doesn't catch it, because all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears, so much like the sound of the planes that now soars in his skies, and saved his land, and brought America here in his arms.

**Author's notes:**

**Red roses**, as everyone knows, stands for _deep and passionate love_, and is associated with love's pain. **Red and white roses together**, however, mean _unity_. **Irises **bring the _message of hope and sorrow_. Haha. I finally used this flower.

And ho shit, I never thought I'd be writing about history until Hetalia. Dear God. The things I do for love. Like I said earlier, this was, um, set sometime in the Battle of Britain, during the London Bombings. Historical inaccuracies, get! This is probably one of the most ficced non-canon Hetalia scene for this pair. orz

Jittery Joe refers to Joseph Kennedy, John F. Kennedy's father, who famously committed political suicide after he said that democracy was finished in England.


	4. Story 4:1: The Truest Language

**Title:****_Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.1)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*  
**Author's notes:**This is the last, and the longest of the series. This part is actually not a single ficlet anymore, to be honest, since it has, I dunno, possibly 3 to 4 parts.

Thank you so much to those who commented and gave me kind words for these little set of drabbles.

**4. The Truest Language**

_Flowers are sent to do God's work in unrevealed paths, and to diffuse influence by channels that we hardly suspect._ —**Henry Ward Beecher**

_  
__July 1_

"Are you sure you aren't staying for a few hours more?"

England pauses in the act of putting on his trench coat, and looks up to find Canada standing by the doorway that led to the sitting room, clutching his little polar bear close to him, a pleading look on his face. England's heart aches at the sight, as it always does when Canada puts on that expression, but he steels himself (as always).

"I've already stayed later than I should, Canada," England says, glancing away from Canada's blue-eyed gaze (_why did they have to be so physically alike?_) and resumes putting on his coat. He should hurry. He'd miss his flight, and Canada's other guests for his birthday party would be arriving in an hour or so, and he really wants to avoid meeting them.

"I know, and I really enjoyed the time we spent together and I'm glad you took time from your busy schedule to come down for my birthday and watch _Midsummer's_ with me, but England," Canada pauses, and England could hear him take a deep breath before continuing (England inwardly groans; he knows where this would be going), "I thought you'd stay longer this time. I mean, you and him have better relations now, don't you?"

England gives an ungentlemanly snort at that. He crouches down and puts his shoes on, sliding them easily on his sock-clad feet. "Haven't you heard? I've been demoted as a special_partnership_." He nearly bites his tongue at that little slip, but decides to go on as if he reveled nothing of extreme import. "Not to mention he gave that half-arsed gift to my boss, the bloody wanker. DVDs!"

"Eh, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it? He did make up for that gift when he visited you, didn't he? And, uhm, I'm sure he didn't really mean demo —"

"Matthew," England cuts in, standing up and leveling Canada a glare. He does not want to be reminded of that right now, will not be compelled to talk about it, not when it still stings, still unhealed. "Must you _always_ insist on this?"

Canada looks at him in the eye, opening his mouth as if to say something, but then he sighs and glances away. "It's just that I feel a bit guilty about this." _This_ being England's habit of coming to Canada for his birthday, and then leaving early before the other guests arrive. "It's like we're doing something wrong with all this sneaking."

"I wouldn't call it _sneaking_!" he protests. "He _knows_ I come here for your birthday."

"If him knowing makes things all right, why don't you stay longer, then?"

"Because we both bloody well know why I don't stay," England snaps back. "America knows as well. My coming and leaving early makes this less awkward for the lot of us."

"But Arthur — "

"Also, I'm still displeased at him for that little cock up of his last April and you will cease to pursue this matter unless you want viol — " England's words abruptly dies on his throat when he sees Canada gaze at something past him, and then his face morphs from one of frustration to one of utter panic.

_America_, England first thinks, heart seizing in his chest, _America_ is _behind_ him and oh _fuck_, has he heard _everything_ and—

Wait.

Are those _hands_ on his _arse_?

"Ah, _Angleterre_, why must you upset sweet Matthieu so on his _soirée d'anniversaire_?"

England never thought he'd see the _day_ he would be _glad_ of France _groping_ him. _Hell must be freezing over_, he thinks absently before he jabs France in the stomach with his elbow. The lavender-scented Frenchman dodged it with surprising speed, but England, anticipating this move, simply steps back a bit and proceeds to kick him in the balls with his feet, and in a split-second, much to England's satisfaction, France was on the floor, writhing in speechless agony.

Canada gives a cry of distress and shoots England a reproachful glare before rushing over to his other father's side to give what comfort he could to the lecherous bastard — mostly by speaking soothing French words — since there are very few things in this world that can alleviate the pain of having a steel-toed shoe slam into your vital regions.

_Ah, now I've done it_. England sighs, exasperated with himself. Now he has to really stay a bit and soothe Canada, who looks terribly unhappy. Poor lad didn't deserve this kind of behavior from England on his birthday, no matter how annoyingly persistent he was. He kneels beside Canada, careful not to be within striking distance from any retaliatory attacks of France (or at least France had to hit Canada before he gets to England).

"Matthew." England puts his hand on Canada's shoulders, catching his attention. Canada turns to him, blue-violet eyes bright with unshed tears and childish resentment — eyes almost like America's on a face quite like America's, looking so sad and angry — and for a dizzying moment it is not Canada England sees, but his brother, and England hurts and aches all over again, and whatever words of apologies he was going to say dies in his throat, and his is cupping —_Canada's? America's?_ — chin and leaning forward —

— and of course, as should have been expected, given England's luck, that is the exact moment and scene America comes crashing into.

---

"Crashing" was the word England chose to describe America's entrance. Because that's what he did — not stumble or walk, but _crash_.

Right into England.

_Something_ in England's brain must have addled by that crash, because even years from then, he cannot completely recall what exactly happened. One minute he was _attempting_ to kiss Canada (remembering that part made England inwardly cringe and slam his head on the nearest hard surface every _time_. Dear God, what was he _thinking_ then? Was he even thinking at _all_?), then there was a loud bang, followed by an exuberant shout of "Happy Birthday Canada!", and then something — no, _someone_ (a rather heavy one, too) — suddenly slams into England's side and knocks him flat on his back on the floor.

And when England opens his eyes, his vision is spotted with blurry little glimmering dots of lights that eventually shifts and focuses to the fact that America is on top of him, Texas askew, blue eyes impossibly wide, mouth parted open. He isn't crushing him (which was good, because if he was, England wouldn't be able to breathe), because he had somehow managed to brace himself with his hands on the floor on both side of England's head (which was bad, because he…sort of trapped England in this oh-so-very awkward position).

"Crap, why'd you — _England_?"

England wants to close his eyes again at the sound of the sudden catch in America's voice, but he doesn't dare, and so he is forced to watch as America's face shifts from one of dazed confusion to utter bewilderment when he recognizes the man underneath him.

"England," America says his name again, this time more firmly than before. Blue eyes narrow into icy slits for a moment as he regards England with a thoughtful gaze, and then he smiles that wide, idiotic grin of his. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Indeed." England tries to ignore how close their faces (or their _mouths_, dear _God_, their _mouths_) are, how America's breath is warm and brushing against his already heated skin. _Shallow breaths, that's right, old boy, shallow breaths_, England tells himself, careful not to take in air too deeply. America smells of hamburgers and sweat and musk and bergamot — fuck, he _hates_ that essence — and mandarin, the scents sharp and overwhelming in such close quarters.

England's hands curl to into fists, letting his nails bite into the soft flesh of his palms, the pain helping him focus. "America. I have a plane to catch. Kindly get off me and let me stand." _Or I will punch the living daylights out of you, you bloody wanker_, he does not add, but instead conveys through his voice.

"What, not staying for Canada's birthday party?" England suppresses a shiver when America ignores his unspoken warning and leans closer — _fuck, fuck, FUCK_ — his stomach clenching at America's tone. The idiot still had a cheerful expression on his face, but his voice has lost its pleasant ring, his words flat and without inflection. It also does not help England's situation that, as he discovers from a quick glance around, France and Canada are no longer in the room with them, leaving England alone to deal with what promises to be a very unpleasant conversation with America. "Did you just drop off a gift and said happy birthday and then you're off? You're such a sucky father figure, you know that? Can't even stay for any of your kids' birthday."

That. Was. _It_. England's temper snaps, and with a strength that took both of them by surprise, he all but throws off America, sending the younger nation stumbling back nearly halfway across the room. England quickly gets to his feet, crouching just a bit, breath in heavy, ragged pants, and finds himself locking gazes with America again.

England _bolts_. Doesn't waste any more time, just _runs_ and grabs the doorknob, flings the door open and dashes outside, into the cold open air, doesn't stop until he is away from America, far away from the sudden overwhelming need to touch America at the sight of those blue eyes, filled with anger and sadness and resentment, so much like the eyes he had that time in the rain, so _so_long ago. He runs, even though his lungs are burning from the exertion, and he ignores how tight his chest feels, closes his eyes and tries not to hear the pounding of blood in his ears.

England doesn't remember how far he ran, or how he even managed to get into a taxi and arrive at the airport — everything was a blur. Once on the plane, England takes a single shot of whiskey and one sleeping pill to knock himself out; it was the only thing he could think of that would stop him from drinking himself blind during the flight, to keep the memories at bay.

Mercifully, it works. England is soon asleep, and, as an added kindness, he does not dream.

---

_East Berlin, much, much later than evening_

"— FUCK YOU. DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE? THE AWESOME ME NEEDS HIS SLEEP. STOP CALLING AND FUCK. _OFF_."

"...and here I was thinking we'd have a little drinking party at my house. My treat, even."

"...Shit, I knew it. You always do this when this time of the year comes by. And hell no. I'm not touching your shitty brew again after last year. I'm bringing my own over, but on _your_fucking tab."

"Fine. Just get your albino ass here, you fucking Kraut. I've already started without you."

"Hey, who you calling an albi—"

**TBC**

**Notes:**

Yes, we can has a Prussia. The bastard hijacked me and demanded I write him. So next part you'll be treated to Prussia's HELL YES I'M AWESOME advice. To England. And possibly America and Canada. IDK. I am his prisoner.

**Lavander** was sometimes used to mask unpleasant smells, and so has come to have a meaning of "_I don't trust you_." In my head!canon, England haets lavander because it reminds him of Francis, who loves the flowers.

According to Wikipedia, **bergamot** is used in "_hoodoo rootwork_," where is used to _"control or command, and for this reason is used in a variety of spells and formulas in which a practitioner might wish to subdue another person."_ This is not to say Alfred practices hoodoo (although it appears that one of the early grimoires of hoodoo were made for the Pennsylvania-Dutch hexmeisters in the 1800s), but it would explain Arthur's aversion to it. Bergamot is also used in aromatherapy to help with depression. Because of its ability to "combine an array of scents," bergamot can be found in one-third of the perfumes produced. Hmm, given its use in hoodoo, I wonder if ability to combine scents is the _only_reason it's found in so many perfumes.

I have nothing against albinos, by the way.


	5. Story 4:2: The Truest Language

**Title:****_Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.2)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*  
**Author's notes:**America sulks, Canada tries to pacify him. Prussia and England get drunk together.  
**  
****4. The Truest Language (2)****  
**  
_Meanwhile, back in Canada's house_

Canada considers himself as someone reasonably intelligent. Perhaps not a genius like Japan or Estonia, but certainly his IQ is above that of, er, certain nations.

So why, he asks himself for the umpteenth time, did he get himself in situations like these?

These being, first, the godawful birthday party he just had.

The one where America spent all the time interacting with the other nations with a sunny smile on his face while simultaneously emitting a 'don't fuck with me, I will rip you apart' aura. How he did it, Canada did not know, but its effect was felt in the room.

The tension in the air was so thick and palpable that even the usually oblivious North Italy noticed things were not quite alright and clung to Germany's sleeve the whole night (much to the German's embarrassment), curl drooping. Same thing with his older brother, who would not let go of Spain's arm and kept muttering 'Protect me, you bastard' (much to the Spaniard's delight).

Even _France_ wasn't groping many nations as usual (but that may be because he still hasn't fully recovered from the blunt testicular trauma England's steel-toed shoe inflicted on him).

The not-so-covert 'We will talk later' glares America kept sending him at every fucking opportunity didn't help, either.

_Why can't_ I _have nice things every now and then?_ Canada's been looking forward to his birthday. He hadn't been able to relax for a while, thanks to his recent political upheavals and his own economic woes. Then just when things seem to be settling down, America and his new boss came down to visit, and while he likes his brother and his new boss, having America in his house can be exhausting — and nerve wracking, too (Canada didn't _really_ need Russia sending out his damn plane so close to _his_ airspace as some sort of mindfuck _message_ to America or whatever to make things more stressful).

Well, to be fair, he did get a break of sorts a while back. He had his Tulip Festival, and Holland came over again to express his er, _gratitude_ for deeds past, and they had…fun. "But a nation has a right to a peaceful, _happy_ birthday, right? Even always invisible Canada, _right?_" Canada whispered fiercely to his polar bear, the _one_ thing who he could count on to comfort him.

"Who?" the bear asks, titling its head.

_Okay, maybe not. Fuck my life, eh._

The _second_ situation is the one he was in right now. His birthday party had ended. Everyone had gone home (all of them moving as if the devil himself was on their heels, so eager they were to leave his house, Canada noted with bitterness) — except France, who had gone to the hospital (and no, he will not elaborate why; some things are better left unexplained _and_ untouched, especially untouched — like little sisters with gun-totting older brothers).

Now he was alone with America. A very _pissed_ America.

Those cowardly _fucks_! Canada silently rages at the other, absent, nations as he watches his twin brother lounge around in his sofa, unnervingly quiet and subdued as he flips through the channels. His stomach is heavy with dread, but he tamps down the urge to grab his hockey stick that he always kept at the nearby closet _just in case_.

He could tell America to leave, can't he? After all, this was _his_ house. But America in his current mood might not take that very well and —

"So, what did old man England get you for your birthday?"

Canada blinks, and stares at America, who was looking at him with a calm expression. "Well?" he prodded. Before Canada could answer, America cuts in, "I bet he got you something really stupid and old-fashioned."

"He gave me flowers," Canada snaps, twitching a little when he hears that little mocking tone in America's voice. He glances at the bouquet on the table, a mix of white larkspur and lilies with white and dark pink tea roses, which Canada knew came from England's garden and he knew the former Empire picked out with great thought. "He always does. And he gave me an afghan in my flag's design and a new sweater and scarf, and then we watched _A Midsummer Night's Dream_."

England likes to give Canada and to those he really, _really_ liked — not that he would ever admit he liked any them (he'd admit to Portugal, though, but that's because he's Portugal) — presents he made himself. One time, just after England gave him his independence, he gave Canada a bookshelf he had crafted, complete with books written by English authors — Shakespeare, Locke, Donne, Hobbes, Conan Doyle — some of them quite old and priceless, but not quite as rare or precious as what happened next.

_Knowledge is the best gift I could give you, Matthew_, England had said, smiling in that rare, melancholic but affectionate way of his, eyes bright as he looked at Matthew with something he could have sworn as fierce pride. _You've grown up enough to know to use it wisely_. Canada remembers how he teared up then, and quite impulsively embraced his former Empire. For once England made no protests or denials of sentimentality, but simply held him in his arms.

"Oh. I see. That's the play with the fairies, right? No wonder he took you to that." Canada is jarred out of his reverie by the note of derision in America's voice. He glares at his twin.

"He used to give you gifts like that, too, you know," Canada points out. He remembers vividly the chest of toy soldiers, the ones he envied so much when they were children. America could not stop bragging about them, and Canada ended up crying over it so much. "He stopped giving you them after you insulted his skills for the umpteenth time."

"He didn't stop giving me stuff," America throws back, looking very petulant and childish with that pout of his. "He gave me that pen holder a few months ago, which my boss is using and likes a lot, by the way."

"And you gave him DVDs in exchange." Canada sighs. Oh, how he wanted to smack his brother upside in the head when he heard about that. "Honestly, America, I'm surprised England didn't strangle you when you gave those to his boss. But I guess he's used to it. You rarely appreciate England's gifts. You don't even wear the clothes he gives you."

----

"He whacked me in the head in private," America said sulkily. _Not to mention nearly bit my head off with his rant about proper gift-giving_. He didn't get what Arthur's problem was. Hey, his movies were _awesome_ (and those DVDs had many cool features and extras), and besides, it was the thought that counts, right?

"I rather doubt any _thought_ was given to this at all," Arthur had replied icily before stomping out of America's office, chin held up high and an obstinate expression on his face. He didn't speak to him the whole visit after that, except when need be or for show. When it was time for them to leave,

America frowned at the memory. _Trust England to be such a snob._

Glaring at his twin, America adds, "And I do wear the clothes he gives me," he pauses when he realizes what he just said, and then swiftly looks away from Canada's searching eyes, glancing instead at the still open TV. "Just not when he could see," he finishes in a quiet mutter.

Canada doesn't know, couldn't know, but pretty much every piece of clothing England has given him, scarves and sweaters and even socks and gloves and so on, he uses and keeps them as much as he could. They usually smell of lilacs or heather; America does not know why, but those scents comforts him, as is the thought that these gifts, soft and warm against his skin, fitting just snug and right (he has always wondered how England knew of his measurements, even after all these years), were made by England's own hands.

But he does have a reputation to maintain, and he really didn't want England to catch on just how much value he puts on these gifts he gives him so he never dares wear them when England is around, never, ever lets on how much they mean to him. America lives in fear of the day England stumbles on his little collection in the storage room — gifts and mementoes he had gathered all these years, most of them, unsurprisingly, connected to England. He'd never hear the end of it from his former guardian; England would gloat about it for days.

(But sometimes, when America looks deep inside his heart's desires, he knows it is not the fear of England's gloating and his own possible humiliation that holds him back, but something else he could not name, but knows all too well.)

----

_July 2, London_

"Shit, England, of course I fucking understand. I raised Germany, raised him and took care of him, made him what he was, who the fuck he was, and what does he do in gratitude? Me, who stood by his side no matter what! His own awesome older brother! Look at who am I now, yeah, I know I'm still awesome, but I'm like some fucking _ghost_." Prussia glares at England, and then flashes his devil-may-care smile. "So yeah, I fucking hated that, even fucking hated West for a while back then, but that doesn't mean I have a grudge against West even _now_."

"Who said anything of grudges? And it's not the _same_, you fucking Kraut," England snarls back, hands curling into tight fists, body tensing. He and Prussia have been drinking and talking in England's study for about…an hour or two now, England can't really tell the time. All he could feel was the twisting pain in his check and the bitter buzz and taste of the beer they were drinking. "It was Germany's bosses that wanted that, who did that to you. Germany had no choice but to obey. America —" _America wanted to break free from me_ himself, England almost says, but the words die on his throat, leaving behind the taste of blood and iron and bitter, _bitter_bile.

He doesn't have to finish — Prussia understands well enough what he's trying to say. The fucking Kraut just laughs, loud and mocking, his eyes red like the devil's own. "Well, if you've been a better brother to him, had you fucking stopped acting like you have stick up your ass and didn't push him so much, he wouldn't have — "

"Prussia," England interrupts, sick of this, sick of a lot of things. He is drinking to forget, not — _not_to remember, but then he _is_ drinking with _Prussia_, of all nations. He should have called Portugal instead, with his sweet wines and soothing presence. "Let's just belt the fuck up about this and get back to drinking, could we?"

Prussia doesn't even blink at the promise of violence in England's narrowed eyes. He grins instead and stares at him, but just when England thinks he's going to punch the lights out of the Kraut, he looks away and goes back to drinking.

They drink for several minutes in almost companionable silence, save for the tension between them, and England swears he could taste the sharp tang of potential bloodshed in his beer, in his tongue.

"Little brothers aren't ours to keep, you know." The smile on Prussia's lips seems wistful in the dim light. "They all grow up eventually." He gives England a mocking, appraising glance. "Hell, even _you_ grew up, but not too much. Still a little midget."

"Fuck you. France and I have the same height, I'll have you know." England leans forward, resting his head against the cool glass of the beer bottle. He closed his eyes, and wills himself not to remember that little boy with the brightest smile he had ever seen, the one he used to carry in his arms and sing to sleep, the one who is now so very tall, and so very _away_. "He grew up too fucking fast," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Don't they fucking always?"

**TBC**

**Notes:**

Yeah, Russia did sent up plane 24 hours before President Obama's visit to Canada. Russia denies sending this plane, of course.

I had to include the Canadian Tulip Festival. In Persia, to give a **red tulip** was to _declare your love_. The black center of a tulip represents the lover's heart, burned to a coal by love's passion. **Yellow tulips** were to _declare your love hopelessly and utterly_.

_Larkspur_ (or delphiniums) is the birth flower of July and stands for lightness and levity. Lilies, especially white ones, stand for purity.

In my head canon, England likes to give out handmade gifts to people he likes a lot.

Believe it or not, _Midsummer Night's Dream_ will be performed in July 1 in Shakespeare on the Saskatchewan this year. XD


	6. Story 4:3: The Truest Language

**Title:****_Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.3/4.5)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed* And, er, fail!angst. This one has bucketfuls of it.  
**Author's notes:**I hope you enjoy this part (which the second to the last one), even if it took me forever to write it. Much love to berseker and miaoujones, who listened when I rambled about this, and sakuratsukikage and oinkwarrior, who, knowingly or unknowingly, cheered me when I was down. And most of all to equivalent_t, who provided the emotional core of this story.

**4. The Truest Language (3)**

England is sprawled on his bed, sleeping contentedly into the early morning. He stirs a little at the sound of faint, scampering footsteps that grows louder and louder by the second, and almost starts awake when the door is thrown open with a heavy bang.

"Englandengland_engla~nd! _Wake up, wake up, wake _up!_"

England flutters open at the sound of the familiar, childish, melodious voice. Through half-lidded eyes, he sees wide blue eyes stare back at him, shining with mischief and mirth, could feel warm hands cupping his face. "What is it, America?" he murmurs sleepily, indulgently, as he is wont to sound when he is filled with overwhelming love for his boy, and he squints his eyes as the sun shines brilliantly through the glass window behind America, giving him the appearance of a halo, of divinity. _He smells of the sun_, he thinks. He cannot clearly see the boy's face against the light, but does not mind it all. His voice and scent and touch is enough.

America giggles charmingly, and he holds out a small head wreath of various wildflowers in front of England that makes his eyes go wide. "I made something for _you_."

"That is very pretty," he says with a little catch on his voice. "Thank you." He reaches out to touch it, but then stops when he sees the purple and cream common primroses weaved into the wreath.

_This is a dream_, England realizes in a heartbeat. "There were no common primroses in America's land then," he says into the ether, to no one and everyone. "And America is no longer a child." When he lifts his eyes to look at America, he finds himself now standing in the middle of a clearing in the woods, air thick with the heady, sweet scent of violets and primroses damp on his feet, and with skies as blue and bright as America's eyes, seemingly all alone.

"That's right," the voice belongs to man now, to someone standing just behind him. "Not a child anymore. Not your boy. No longer with you."

England spins round, and he finds himself looking at America-who-is-not-America. In this dream, he cannot see America's eyes, obscured as it is by the glare of sunlight against his glasses, but he knows he is looking back at him, and can feel his amusement. He can see that he is smiling, though, teeth white and bared. "Hello, England."

England takes a careful step back when America approaches him, tries to sidestep but fails when America wraps a strong arm 'round his waist, struggles when he pulls him close, so close they take in each other's breath. England's cheeks grow warm when America takes hold of his chin and forces him to look into his eyes, a glimmering blue now, dark with secrets and mysteries. He smells of hyacinths and England's insides twist at that, at how right and wrong the scent is for him, for them. _Even if it is of the wrong language_.

"You aren't him," England says in his softest voice, and despite his misgivings, cups this dream America's face with gentle fingers, even as his heart breaks into a million tiny pieces._ This is all a lie_._ He will never hold me this way. Never._

"No." America smiles, sharp and sweet, and kisses him delicately on the right corner of his mouth, then on the left corner, lips ghosting faintly on England as he did. "No. No. _No_." Finally, he kisses England on the mouth, hard and fierce, and England closes his eyes, and tries not to think why America's kisses tastes of blood and tears.

When England opens his eyes, he finds himself sprawled inelegantly on one of his chairs in his study with a pounding headache that disorients his vision in the dark room. He reeks of spilt alcohol and stale saliva, and his clothes are rumpled and stained with wine and beer.

He lies back for a moment, his fingers ghosting over his lips. Then he shakes his head and stands up unsteadily, and heads out of his study in search of more alcohol to drink and of Prussia's company. That he dreams clearly indicates he needs more of both.

------

_July 2, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Canada's house_

"So, how long do you plan to stay moping on my couch?"

"I wasn't moping," America counters. "I was just thinking." Then he doesn't speak for a few more minutes, concentrating on whatever inanity was on the TV. _Not moping. Yeah right_, Canada thinks. America's face is dark as a thundercloud, brows knitted together in a deep frown. _Brooding is more like it_.

It's been a few hours now since after Matthew's party, and America _still _has not left and was still lounging on his sofa. Canada was beyond exasperated, but he cannot bring himself to push away his brother. For a brief moment, Canada saw a wistful look in America's face when they were talking about England's gifts that tugged his heart. It reminded him so much of the America's expression whenever England left to go back to his own lands back when they were very young, back when they were still unsure if England would still come back to them.

"Hey, Canada." This time America turns to face him, a pensive look on his face, at the sight of which Canada knows he wouldn't be able to kick his brother out tonight, lest he suffer from severe guilt. "Is England really _that_ upset with the DVDs, you think?"

Canada sighs. He scoops up his bear into his arms, and plunks himself on the couch beside America. "You know," Canada says finally. "I think it wasn't the DVDs he was most upset about."

America doesn't say anything for a moment, then his brother sighs, long and pained. "Oh." America says quietly, not looking at his brother. "I thought so."

-----

"Did you?" Canada grips his bear tighter in his arms until the poor thing squirms a bit and Canada loosens his grip with a hastily mumbled apology. "What the hell happened earlier? What did you do to him exactly, anyway? France and I just ra–er, I mean–I had to help out France so I, uh, didn't see what you two were doing."

America shifted uneasily in his seat as he recalled the events this afternoon. "I pinned him down on the floor and asked him why he wasn't staying for your birthday, and that he was a sucky 'dad' for acting like that. Then he pushed me off and ran outside."

"_America_," Canada groans, and he looks like he wants to facepalm, but then settles to burying his face on his hands. "You know how he gets this time of the year. And with that comment, well, no wonder he ran off! I'm surprised he didn't beat the crap out of you. He must have been very upset."

To be honest, America wasn't overly bothered by England's reaction to the gift of DVDs. England acts all huffy and annoyed most of the time when confronted by what he calls America's foolishness (sometimes he looks strangely cute when he is, with golden caterpillars brows scrunched up in displeasure), but if America left him be long enough (or pestered him, whichever he felt like doing that time), he got over it eventually and they were back to their old routine.

What happened today, however, was something _more_. "That still doesn't explain why he has to push me and run off like that." England never ran from him—he always dealt with America head on. He would rant and rave and flail and shout and punch and kick and curse, but England _never_ ran. That he did today was not only deeply surprising to America, it was also deeply unnerving. And the wild-eyed look in England's eyes after he had pushed America off, as if he was some sort of cornered prey, didn't really make him feel any better. "And I've said that to him several times before, and around this time too, but he's never—it would have been OK if he tried to beat me up, because that's what he does, but he didn't and he just _bolted_. It's like he saw a ghost or something."

Canada's head snaps up at his ghost comment, and he stares strangely at America, like he said something clever but didn't realize it himself. Then Canada's face grows thoughtful, and then he straightens up and looks away. He doesn't face America when he says, tentatively, "Maybe he's just really high-strung, well, _more_ that the usual this time around, because, I think, he's, ah, really, _really _bothered by the partnership thing. And, you know, what your boss said a while ago, about you hanging around with other nations. And with your boss returning that bust of his prime minister."

America snorts. "He's just being an idiot." Trust _England_ to overanalyze things and assume the worst about him. "Don't tell me he's holding a grudge over that and a bust. It's just a statue. But England is a symbolism-obsessed bastard so–"

"I don't think it's _about_ grudges, America. Or even England holding a grudge over that." America gives Canada a "yeah right" look. "Okay, _maybe_ that's part of it. But I think it's," Canada hesitates again, glances away from America for a moment (_again_), and then looks at America in the eyes. "I think," he repeats in a quiet voice, "_maybe_, he's just afraid."

"England's _what_?" Well. _Well_. America has never thought of _that_. He always has assumed England just upset and angry that they wouldn't be hanging around each other more. He's never thought of England being _afraid_ before. It just . . . doesn't seem to fit him. Of course he knew that deep down inside, England has moments he was afraid, everyone does (but not the hero, of course!), but not about _this_. "What would he be afraid about?" America asks out loud, genuinely puzzled.

Canada smiles at him. "You leaving him again, of course. What else?"

"That's _stupid_, " America snaps. _What the hell, England_. _That's–how could you_— "Okay, I know he might be upset that my boss wants me to hang out with other Nations like France and Germany more now rather than with him, but _leaving_ him? _I already left! _Like more than _two hundred_ years ago. I mean, I'm _independent_. I'm not–"

"Maybe _left_ is the wrong word, my bad," Canada concedes. "Maybe _lose_ is the right one. I'm not saying you're not independent or anything like that, okay? Jeez, calm down," Canada adds hastily when America jerks as if he'd been shot and then levels him with a glare. "What I trying to say is, _maybe_ England is afraid of you two drifting apart again, like you did in the past. I mean, you've been pretty close lately, right? But with all this talk of you hanging out with other Nations, it's making him anxious about losing the close relationship you two have."

"That's stupid," America says again, but this time his voice lacking the heat and conviction it had the first time. Looking back, that did make sense. England had always been weird about things like that, ever since his rebellion and his eventual independence from him. America recalls something someone told him in passing—ah, France. France was the one who said it, he remembers now. _It seems, since then, he has, developed, ah, what do you call it, hmm, separation anxiety, yes?_ France had said in the casual, airy manner he uses when he tries to bait him for a reaction. France smiled cattily at America, one brow arched up. _For someone who says he likes his splendid isolation, he gets too attached for his own good sometimes, our _Angleterre.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Canada says. "It's not hard to understand why England acts and thinks that way. I mean, we both know your revolution was very difficult for him. He was in a bad temper for a long, long time."

_It was difficult for me, too!_ _Why does everyone think England was the _only_ one who got hurt at that time?_ America wants to snap back, but says instead, "But it's been over _two hundred years_." _It always goes back to my independence, doesn't it, England? No matter what I do, no matter what I say, it always goes back to _that. America doesn't regret it, getting his independence, fighting for it. _Never_. It was something he had to do, as a Nation and for himself and his people. He knew it _would_ hurt England, but he didn't do solely so he _could_ hurt him.

For the first time since he and Canada started talking about this, America shows his frustration, letting it seep into his voice, and tries not hard not too pool his hair out. "I'm not doing it to hurt him or alienate him. It's something I _have_ to do. I'm not _abandoning_ England. He's not going to _lose_ me. Why can't he get that?" He lets out a bitter, self-depreciating laugh. _No, the truth is, he has _never_ lost me. _America remembers all those past gifts, kept and hidden (and treasured) in the attic. _He's just too blind and hung up to the past to see _that.

"You haven't been very vocal about such things," Canada says with a gentle smile. "But then again, so is England. And you two always argue and insult each other, too, so it's easy for misunderstandings to crop up. You two should talk things out."

"Right. And here I thought action speaks louder than words. Shouldn't you be asking that I act more nicely around him?"

"Well, that helps, but at this point, I don't think actions _are_ enough. You need to say something about, well, whatever you feel for England. This can't go on forever. You have to make things a bit clear for him."

"No _way!_" America shouts, and he could feel his face heat up. Canada did not just ask him to make a confession of his feelings to England. Is his brother out of his _mind_? Not that he has any sort of feelings to—oh hell. Who was he kidding? He has all sorts of feeling he needs to tell England for the longest time now. "I'm not saying anything until England goes first." There is no way he was going to shame himself before England. What if the stupid old man just laughs at him?

"No, America." America nearly jumps at the power and firmness in Canada's voice. Canada was looking at him with such an intense gaze that if America hadn't been America, he would have looked away from sheer intimidation. "England can't be the one who confesses first."

"Why the hell _not_?"

"Because England has already given enough. And you've taken enough from him."

America stares at his brother in bewilderment. "_What?_"

"He _can't_ go first, America. At this point in time, the first move has to be _yours_. You have all the cards, you see. England can't give up more, or he'll risk losing _himself_. So it has to be _you_."

"You're not making any sense."

Sighing, Canada stands up and dusts himself. "Think about it. But I'm telling you, the first move should be yours, not England's." He then walks away from America without another word.

America stands up as well and follows his brother. "Hey! Where are you going?" Damn it all if America was going to let Canada go after saying strange things like _that_.

"To the phone." Canada says over his shoulder. "I need to call and make sure England came home all right. After what happened between you two, it's very likely he got himself drunk _again_."

"Oh." America stops for a moment as a stab of guilt hits him in the heart. He can guess why England is drunk again. He watches warily as Canada picks up the handset and starts dialing England's number. He glances at America with a considering look, and then presses the 'speakerphone' option.

The phone rings loud and long, once, twice, then thrice, and then a few more. America discreetly chews his lip as they wait for England, or _someone_ to answer, at this point. Meanwhile, colorful, depressing scenarios keep playing on America's head, of England passed out drunk on the floor, or in the airport, or some dingy alley where—

There is a loud clatter, and then a rough voice snarled, "Who the _fuck_ is this?"

Canada jumps a bit, then says, "England? It's—"

"Sorry, England's too pissed out of his mind to answer the fucking phone. You get awesome me, though."

"It's–uh, who is this? And what are you doing in England's house?"

"Heh. America, right? I know that cocky voice anywhere. Fuck, you don't remember me? Hell, I was the one who whipped your whiny ass into shape so you could beat the crap out of England and get your precious in-de-fucking-dence."

Canada looks offended for a moment for being mistaken as America even on the phone. Then he sighs. "Is this Prussia? I thought you're de–wait, why are you in England's house?"

Prussia laughed. "Getting drunk with him, what else? We have, what the fuck do you Yanks call it, ah shit, whazzat, uh, aha!–a _bromance_. Heh. That's right. England and I have fucking epic drinking badass _bromance_."

Canada looks at America again, who gives him a "fucked if I know" look and shrug in return. Canada then clears his throat. "I, uh, see. This is Canada, by the way. Is, uh, England there? America and I called just to make sure he got home safely from my party."

"Didn't you listen to me earlier? England's pissed. Drunk as a fucking lord. He's smashed outta his skull. He's motherfucking drunk off his _arse_–"

"We get it! We get it!" America cuts in. "Jeez, you didn't have to–never mind. Is he, uh, okay?" Behind him, America could hear Canada groan, from frustration or anger at America pushing him away he didn't know.

"He's DRUNK. But don't worry about him. He's a tough sonofabitch. Still can't hold his fucking liquor, though. And he does this every year, trying to be too fucking drunk to remember or working up the damn courage to go to that stupid birthday party of yours. You know, the one where you don't invite the awesome me ever–"

America is about to reply why precisely he didn't invite Prussia over to his house on his birthday when he hears England's voice come bellowing out of nowhere. He winces and covers his ears for a moment to preserve his hearing.

"But where is the rum, Prussia?" England demands, or America thinks that what England's asks, so thickly accented and slurred his speech was.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Prussia's exasperated reply is nearly as loud as England's, "what is it about you Anglophone guys not _listening_ to me? Is my English too incomprehensible for you? Do I have a motherfucking speech defect? I told you before, _there is no more goddamn rum!_ You drank the whole fucking _bottle_ thirty minutes ago!"

There was a pause, and America and Canada could faintly hear staggering steps, which they assumed was England walking drunkenly. "Oh. _Oh_. I see. Drank it all, did I?"

"That's right. You drank it all. Hey, America's on the phone, do you want to talk to him?" That made America panic for a moment; he didn't know if he could handle talking to a very drunk England right now. The last time he did (which was on a bar, not over the phone), England set off to a nightlong drunken rant of how stupid and ungrateful he was and his other failings, which eventually ended with England speaking in gibberish before toppling over and losing consciousness.

(France, who was in the bar with them then and was watching with perverse amusement, later told him, while America carried England home, that the 'gibberish' was England cursing him in Old English. "Something about your privates being devoured by black rot and falling off, I believe. Lucky for you, _mon ami_, he didn't finish the spell.")

Thankfully (or maybe not), England says (or, more precisely, rambles), "No. Don't want to. Don't want to say sorry. Don't want to cry about the stupid ungrateful sod again." There was a pause, and America holds his breath for a moment for England's next words. "Where's the rum? I need more rum."

"Well, I don't have any with me right now." Prussia counters. "You're the one who knows where your fucking booze is."

"Oh. Right, right." The staggering steps resumed, and for a moment that was all America could hear, and then there was a loud smack and Prussia said something that sounded like a German curse under his breath. "Hey, be careful climbing down the stairs, you stupid drunken pirate, you could–"

There was a hoarse yell, then a terrible crack followed by the thumping sound of a body falling and tumbling down, so loud and distinct even across the lines that it startles both Canada and America, making them jump a bit.

"Oh _FUCK_." America flinches at the loud clattering sound as Prussia presumably drops the phone, followed by frantic footsteps. America goes cold all over at the sound of Prussia cursing and panicking. "England, what the _fuck__!_ Oh shit. _Shit_. Oh _fuck_. Goddammit, how can you be so stupid? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

Canada shoves America out of the way and starts shouting at the speakerphone as well. "Prussia? What the hell is happening? What happened to England? Is he OK? Prussia? _Prussia!_"

**T.B.C.**

**Notes (massive ones, too):**

I'm so, so sorry for posting this so late (and nothing happens here, too!). I was struggling with being depressed, and writing this fic has become almost a physical pain for me and has led me, as berserker knows, to call this 'My Ode to the US/UK Pairing, or, How I Stopped Worrying about History Canon, Told It to Go Fuck Itself, and Just Shipped These Two', if that makes sense. /bricked

**Primroses** mean, "I can't live without you," and was said to be Benjamin Disraeli's (Queen Victoria's favorite Prime Minister) favorite flower. I had no idea that was what it meant when I picked it. As I understand, primroses hold a special place in England. I could be wrong, though.

**Violets** stand for faithfulness and modesty, and in some meanings, "I am always thinking of you." Violets were very popular in Victorian England, and before it was bred out of them, their scent was second to none, with a sweet fragrance that was said to overwhelm the senses. Violets are also eaten as candied violets.

The meaning behind **hyacinths** will be explained later. But you're free to guess. ;)

/bricked


	7. Intermission: Anniversary

**Title: ****_Anniversary_**  
**Disclaimer: **Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing: **America × England  
**Word count**: 1360  
**Rating**: PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed* And, er, angst.  
**Author's notes**: This is very much connected to **an ongoing fic** in my _Floriography_ series. In fact, you can say it's probably one of the future outcomes of that story. XD  
**Summary**: England doesn't come to America's party again, despite the fact they were lovers now and it's the first year anniversary. Cue mopey Nation.

It was late at night. The fireworks have been set off. The music has stopped blaring. The food has been eaten, the drinks consumed and guzzled. The dirty dishes and the chairs and tables and tents carted out by the caterers. The guests have left, some tipsy and singing strange songs, others with smiles on their lips and in the arms of their loved ones.

And yet, in the end, England didn't come.

_Well, he did say he'd only_ try, America tells himself as he climbs the stairs to his room, shedding clothing as he did, _so I shouldn't be too disappointed_.

The party had been fun and exciting. Well, all the parties he threw are fun. Everyone had a great time (well, maybe not certain people, but that wasn't his fault. And Russia can just–oh wait he's not supposed to think that, they have better relations now). Heck, he had a great time—when he wasn't looking at the door, waiting for England to arrive, which he did, for, like, every fifteen minutes.

"I'll try to come, America," England had told him, back when he had invited him, two months ago. England gave him a fond, but somewhat apologetic smile. That smile had given so much hope; it's been so different from the scowls and glares he's received years before whenever he tried to invite him to his birthday parties. "You know what I'm like when this time of the year comes 'round."

America had wanted to persuade him further, but early in their relationship, he had promised to give England space when it came to _this_, to let _him_ decide when he was ready, so he was forced to back down and wait for England's decision.

And England decided not to come. He didn't even, at the very least, give him a call to wish him a happy birthday or them a happy anniversary (even though Arthur doesn't really consider this date their real anniversary but hey, it's the day the had their first romantic kiss so that counts, right?), or send a gift, or any indication that he acknowledged this date, or show some sort of presence, except perhaps this deafening silence.

Truth be told, America would have ended sulking through his party had it not been for Japan, France and Canada, who had sensed his mood, and tried to keep him entertained as much as possible.

"Don't worry, America," Canada had told him with a kind smile, just before he left with France. "It'll be all right. You know how England is."

_But it's _my _birthday_ _and _our _first-year anniversary England, dammit you should have–I wanted to celebrate with you_. He wanted England to come so much so he could throw his arms around his lover's neck and pull him against him and then smother him with kisses and then watch him fuss and turn into that lovely shade of rose red he had when he was flustered (and a little bit turned on, heh, the old pervert). Then they'd hold hands the whole time, rarely leaving each other's side for very long, and the whole world would know that they were together, and America would know for sure, that somehow, England has fo–

America slaps his palm on his face. _Okay, America. Stop that train of thought. You're just setting yourself up for more disappointment. And you and England have talked about this_. "Patience, America, patience," he mutters to himself. Perhaps it was just truly too soon for England still. And there will be other birthdays. Maybe the next time, next year, England would come for sure!

Be when he reaches the door, he lets out a heartsick sigh and leans the top of head against the door. Looks like he is going to be spending the night of his birthday alone again. He'd been hoping, hoping so bad that England would come and they could–ah no use to dwell on that.

He straightens himself, and he opens his door, takes a step inside, and looks up–

–and finds his room bathed in a velvet-soft glow coming from the golden flames of a hundred candles of all sizes and shapes surrounding his bedroom.

And England is sitting on the middle of his bed, naked except for the white heart-shaped pillow between his spread thighs, a red and blue satin bow around his neck. The bed seems to be covers in hundreds of rose petals, many of them spilling down to the carpeted floor below.

England looks straight at him, blushing that adorable red, his eyes a strange, glimmering green-gold against the flickering lights. "Oh. You're earlier than I expected."

America does not move, does not breathe, does not speak, and only looks. _Oh_. America knows he is blushing too, he could feel the heat on his cheeks, on his neck, the spreading warmth throughout his body that pools in his stomach and in his heart. Oh. _Oh_.

But as is typical of him, England misinterprets his silence for something less pleasant. "If you start laughing, I promise you–oh, God, what was I thinking, this is so stupid–"

"No!" America almost flew across the room to stop England from getting out of the bed. A cloud of petals go up in the air and scatter as they land on the bed, America half on top of England, pinning him down, holding on to England's wrist tight, afraid to let go.

"America–" a very flustered England starts to say, but America cuts him off when kisses him, quite enthusiastically, on the lips.

---

Later, much later, they are lying on their bed of roses, and America is grinning so very wide and so very smug and sated like a cat who drank the cream _and_ ate the bird that England swats him half-heartedly on the shoulder. The scent of myrrh and wine and pear drops is heavy in the air—from the roses, England tells him when he asked him in the morning, one of the breeds have that scent—but they do not smell so sweetly as England, who is pressed against him, smelling of tea and heather and of the rain and sea.

"So," he asks (because he is very curious) after a while, as he runs his fingers through England's messy, damp locks, "how long were you waiting here?"

"An hour or so. Getting ready. Fairies helped."

America bites his tongue in time to stop himself from saying anything about England's fairies. "France, Japan and Canada were on this, weren't they?" _You know how England is_, Canada had said. Oh yes he does. America should have known, really. England does love surprises and pranks, and most of all, is a romantic to the very core, however hard he tries to hide it. He should have seen this coming miles away.

But he is very happy he did not.

England gives a little pout at his question, which makes his eyebrows scrunch up in the cutest ways, like golden caterpillars on the move. "I didn't tell them what I was going to do, I only said it'll be a surprise. I asked them to distract you."

"Uh, huh." He takes a handful of the rose petals and showers them on England, laughing a little when England gives a little sneeze and glares at him. "The roses are from your garden, I bet," he teases.

"Of course. My very best blooms, actually. _Benjamin Brittens_, _Lady Emma Hamilton_s and _Scepter'd Isles_, oh why am I telling you this, you probably don't—"

"_This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle_," America quotes, smiling softly when England looks at him with astonishment. "Richard II, right?" England just nods. " '_This happy breed of men, this little world_,' " He tilts his head, trying to remember another line, " '_This precious stone set in the silver sea_'." Taking advantage of England's parted lips, he kisses him again, very softly, very gently.

"Happy birthday, America," England murmurs when their lips part. "Happy anniversary, too, I suppose."

America lets out a laugh, and he smiles, then pulls England even closer and presses his forehead against his lover's. He closes his eyes, letting the happiness he feels spread over him, a warm, comforting blanket (but that could be from England snuggling against him). "Thank you, England. Thank you."

**Notes:**

Yeah. Their anniversary, Fourth of July–it's actually the first time they kissed in a romantic context. It was something entirely unexpected for both, honestly. They didn't start the actual going out until, like, a month later.

**_Orange roses_**, to quote a website, are the "embodiment of desire and enthusiasm. Orange roses often symbolize passion and excitement and are an expression of fervent romance." **_Pink roses_**, to quote the same website, are "symbol of grace and elegance, the pink rose [is] often given as an expression of admiration."

_Benjamin Britten_ (red but with touches of orange), _Lady Emma Hamilton _(orange), and _Scepter'd Isle_ (pink) are roses by the English rose breeder, David Austin.

According to the website, _Lady Emma Hamilton _was named after "Horatio Nelson's lover . . . to celebrate the 200th Anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar." The Battle of Trafalgar, of course, was when England kicked Spain and France's ass fucking hard and established him as the supreme naval power at that time.

The Scepter'd Isle name, and the line America quotes, came from William Shakespeare's description of England in Richard II , Act II, Scene 1:

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,  
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,  
This other Eden, demi-paradise,  
This fortress built by Nature for herself  
Against infection and the hand of war,  
This happy breed of men, this little world,  
This precious stone set in the silver sea,  
Which serves it in the office of a wall,  
Or as a moat defensive to a house,  
Against the envy of less happier lands;  
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,  
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,  
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,  
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,--  
For Christian service and true chivalry

...please don't kill me for butchering Shakespeare.

_Benjamin Britten_, of course, came from the famous composer's name. ;)


	8. Story 4:4: The Truest Language

**Title:****_Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.4/?)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed* And, er, angst. This one has bucketfuls of it.  
**Author's notes:**This was like, supposed to be second to the last, BUT IT'S NOT WORKING GAIS. I'm so, so sorry. Thank you so much to wayme, who helped me with the Portuguese phrases, to and sillyputtie and berserker, who also helped as well. ILU guys. ;_; Also this chapter makes me nervous like whoa. D:

**4. The Truest Language (4****.4)**

_July 2, morning, England's house_

Portugal whistles a sweet old tune as he ambles up to England's door, morning papers tucked under his arm, a paper bag containing groceries and pastries and a bottle of Portuguese wine from his own vineyards in Douro Valley carried in the other. Some might think it is far too early in the morning for 'proper' visits, but that's all right. England is used to him turning up unannounced this time of the year and 'making a nuisance of himself at such an early hour' and has long stopped grumbling about it. That he regularly turns up at his doorstep bearing the gift of wine and good food and good cheer and companionship (the latter which England needed far more than the wine or the food—though his prickly little Englishman would die before he would admit it) undoubtedly helped his case.

But still, just to be polite, Portugal will knock first (though he has a key to England's house and could come in anytime he wanted), if only to give England a little warning. He raises his fist to rapt smartly against England's door, but a faint, but heavy-sounding thud makes him freeze. He cocks his head to the side, listening intently.

More thumps follow, footsteps by his guess, and then, a distinct, loud, even through England's heavy, solid oak door, very distressed voice, "Fuck it, England! _Are you okay? Fuck!_"

England's door never stood a chance against Portugal. It flew across the room, torn off its ancient iron hinges, landing with a heavy thud on the floor. Much later, England would half-heartedly berate Portugal for breaking down his door, _You should replace it, you idiot_, _do you have any idea how old that is_ and is much irritated when Portugal only laughs at him and ruffles his hair and smiles.

Portugal sprints to where the cursing comes from, skidding to a halt when he breathes in the sickening scent of spilt alcohol and fresh vomit. He chokes and covers his nose with his arm.

He finds a still-cursing Prussia clutching England at the bottom of the stairs, the Englishman slumped against his chest, unnaturally still. Portugal's heart plunges at the sight of England's face covered with blood.

"_Arthur!_" He crouches beside England, hand touching his head gently, carefully, searching for the wound. He glances at Prussia, eyes narrowed, taking in the bright alcohol-induced flush across the former Nation's face, the distress on his pale face and red eyes. "What happened?" he growls out. If Prussia had done anything to hurt England–

"Gahbbyel? Iss that youh?" England slurs, and Portugal turns quickly to his fallen friend, and shivers in fear when he sees England looking at him with bottle-green eyes bright with confusion and alcohol. "Why is the rum gone?"

* * *

Across the pond, America and Canada are close to panicking.

"Prussia? _Prussia!_ What the hell fucking happened to England?_ Prussia!_" They've been shouting at the phone for what seemed to be hours, and yet no one is answering and Prussia is still cursing in German and English and if it was possible America would punch him to shut him up and–

Okay, maybe they _are_ panicking. Heart pounding against his chest (was his heart still really in his chest, he thought, or had it dropped to his stomach or plopped out of his body, like what happened one time with Russia?) and cursing loudly, America is seconds from hightailing out of Canada's house and getting on his plane and fly straight to England. Canada, though fighting to remain calm, is also seconds away from coming with him.

"America, Canada, is that you?" another, somewhat familiar and blessedly calmer (saner) voice says over the speakerphone.

America stares at the phone for a few seconds with a frown, his panic temporarily stilled. "Spain? What are you doing in England's house?"

"No, America, this is Portugal," Portugal replies, chuckling for moment before turning serious. "It appears England has fallen down the stairs. He's unconscious right now and bleeding from a gash on the side of his head–the wound does not appear to be serious," he added reassuringly at America and Canada's sharp intake of breath, "but to be safe, we've called emergency services, and we'll be taking him to the hospital as soon as they arrive. Prussia is fetching some dressing and the first-aid kit to stop the bleeding and–ah, here he is. Thank you, Prussia."

"Is–Is he alright?" Canada asks tentatively as he wrings his hands in concern. Behind him America stood eerily silent.

"He woke up earlier and vomited then lapsed back to unconsciousness, but as I've said, he doesn't seem to be severely injured, but I can't be sure until the doctors take a look at him. But do not worry," Portugal says with wry amusement, "England is hard-headed bastard, so I am quite certain he is all right." In the background, they could hear sirens wailing. "I am afraid I must cut this conversation short. The ambulance has arrived to take England to the hospital. I will call you back as soon as possible to report on his condition."

America takes a deep, calming breath, oddly grateful at Portugal's reassurance. A head injury. Surely it wouldn't be that bad; they aren't fragile humans after all, and Arthur survived worse wounds in his long, long life. "Thanks for letting us know."

"There is no need to thank me; I'm happy to help. And ah, I have not forgotten, but I am a bit late, though. _Parabéns_, Canada. A happy birthday to you."

Despite the current events, Canada manages a wan smile. "Thank you. We'll be waiting for your call."

"Ah, _sim_. I shall speak to you later. _Cuidado_." And with a click, the conversation is over, and silence once again filled Canada's home, with neither twin saying anything, just merely standing there, trying to process what had just happened. England had drunkenly fallen down the stairs, hit his head, was wounded, and is now unconscious.

Well this was turning out to be a fine day.

"I'm going over to London," Canada finally said, in a firm, unwavering voice.

"Yeah," America replies after a moment, not really thinking why he would go—England would probably be all right, and would likely not want to see America so soon, after what happened in Canada's party—but just heeding the almost instinctual desire to go to England and be by his side. "So am I."

* * *

Much to everyone's relief (though he had the paramedics and the doctor worried when he woke up in the ambulance in dazed confusion, asking again and again why was the rum gone, and with his earlier vomiting and intermittent loss of consciousness), England was diagnosed with a mild concussion, and after his wound was patched up and the tests came out negative and with the doctor's approval, was discharged hours later to recuperate at home. The doctor told him he had been extremely lucky he got away with a mild injury—it could have ended with brain damage.

"Like he isn't already," Prussia had muttered under his breath. "Ow! Stop kicking me, you stupid Brit."

Portugal only let out a relieved sigh at the news. "I suppose this is a much better alternative than all those other times you ended up in drunken brawls and breaking bones, miraculously mostly other people's."

Now, England was lying on his four-poster bed, a bandage 'round his head, dosed in painkillers, propped up by a mountain of pillows and under a sea of blankets, as grumpy as always. "I'm fine, Gabriel," he grouses out to Portugal. "There's no need to fuss."

"Canada called a while ago. He and America will be visiting you later, and I am sure you want yourself and your home presentable when they arrive." He sits on a chair near the bed beside England, who now eyes him with suspicion. "Now, tell me my dear friend, what brought this on, hmn?" he asks, though he has already has an idea. He had been following the news, had worried on how this affect England. He should have expected it would all come to head at this time of the year. "You usually don't start this sort of behaviour until the day before that time of the year."

"Nothing brought this on, except perhaps mostly my own foolishness, and it certainly have nothing to do with any _specific_ date or ungrateful Nation," England snarls back, folding his arms across his chest with a huff. "Really, Gabriel, what are you suggesting?"

Portugal only smiles at England, and decides to poke the lion harder, dangerous though this move was, "So this has nothing to do with you being afraid that now that he has a more capable boss, he will stop needing you. Do you think it is better, that he would have a weak bo–"

"Bloody hell, no! No! _No!_" Of course not! I would _never_–How could you even think I would begrudge him of _that_?" He stares at Portugal in disbelief. "He deserves, no, he _needs_, good leadership, after putting up with that preposterous man and that blasted vice-president of his and their minions, and God only knows what a headache and how chaotic things would be in the world had he not had a change in government and–oh bloody hell, look what you've made me do, you wanker. Now _I'm_ defending the idiot," England says, glaring at Portugal with a ferocious scowl on his face.

"So this has nothing to do with the recent reports of his boss wanting him to hang out more with other nations and less with you, then?"

England stares at Portugal, his face pale. Portugal stares back, placidly waiting for his answer. England's fingers curl tightly on the sheets, his knuckles turning white. When England looks away first, looking out to the window beside him, into the gardens, Portugal knows he has won. "It feels like it is all happening again. Just when we're becoming closer, it seems we're about to be torn apart. I feel that I'm losing him, Gabriel. And I am afraid I won't be able to–I should never have let myself–" he flushes at the near admission. "Ah, damn him!"

"_Nunca o deixaste de amar, Arthur_," Portugal tells him kindly, unconsciously slipping to his own tongue. "_E duvido que alguma vez o conseguisses_."

England offers no denial, only a brief chuckle. "I am doomed, then."

"And I doubt _he_ has ever stopped lov–Ah, don't give me that look. I know it to be true. The whole world knows it to be true. Deep in your heart, you know what I say is true." Ignoring England's snort of derision, he adds, "_O tempo continua a passar e a passar e o mundo muda, mas o que vos une permanece. Pode tomar diferentes formas e enfraquecer ou fortalecer-se como a lua no céu nocturno, mas lá continua; uma constante na efemeridade do tempo–_"

"_Enough_. You and your dammed romanticism," England says irritably. Then, in a soft, quiet voice, he adds, "It does not matter if _you_ know, if _I_ know or even if the whole _world_ knows. What matters is if _he_ does."

"He may surprise you. He's far more astute that you give him credit for, I think."

But of course England has an excuse for that. "Even if _he_ knows, his politics–his boss–" _My__ own politics, __my__ own history, _our _own history_, England doesn't add, but Portugal hears it all the same.

"Is that your excuse, Arthur? First, it was your past and now it is politics? In our age you should know better. We are not mere personifications of stereotypes and politics and opinions and ideals of our people. We are much more than that, else you wouldn't be feeling this way. Is this what the British Empire has come to? Giving out without even a fight? Where is your sense of daring, your sense of _romance_? No wonder–"

"This has nothing to do with me being a former empire, damn it all. Or me being trapped in the past." England throws a pillow at him, which Portugal dodges with a laugh, not deterred at all.

"And," Portugal adds, still laughing, "_you_ posses as much as a romantic nature as I do, if your writers and habits are any indication. I chose to be generous with mine; you chose to be miserly with yours."

"At least I am no France, who is smotheringly _generous_ with his," Arthur snaps back, though without much rancor. "Speaking of the Frog, he isn't visiting, is he?"

Portugal indulges him with his desire to change the topic; too much honesty of the heart might kill England, so used to repression he was. Later, he'd probably attribute this momentary breech to the concussion and the drugs and him being not in the right frame of mind. "I do not think so. Canada informs me he is still in the hospital. Something about getting shot. It's look like he was not the only one who encountered misfortune yesterday."

England's grin was frightening to behold. "How lovely. I feel much better already."

Hiding his smile, Portugal turns to head for the door to head downstairs, to get things ready for Canada and America.

"Prussia said something to me, did you know, while we were drinking," England says suddenly, making Portugal pause in his step and look back. England was still staring at the window, a pensive expression on his face. Portugal didn't think England would remember anything from last night, so drunk he was, so this must be something important. "He asked me if I preferred America to remain as some 'pants-clutching pansy boy' forever dependent on me rather than a man who could stand up on his own."

"And?" Portugal asked, fully expecting England to reply that he did not answer Prussia's question.

England still manages to surprise him though. He turns to Portugal, his green eyes dark, a lopsided smile on his face. "I told him I preferred the latter choice than the former, though he was mistaken in his assumptions. America has _never_ needed me. Not even then."

* * *

Canada arrives later that night, bearing flowers, a pretty bouquet of crocuses, peonies, and yarrow, England notes with satisfaction, _the boy remembers his lessons well_, and books and puzzles to entertain him. Canada's smile is wide with relief when he sees England sitting in his expansive sofa, though still propped up by pillows and smothered by blankets. "Hi, England. I'm glad to see you're OK."

England smiles, more than a little pleased. "Thank you, my dear lad. You needn't have bothered bringing me anything at all; in fact, it is I who have much to make up to you. I must apologize for my behaviour yesterday." He grimaced at the memory of what happened at Canada's doorstep, how America had pinned England down and _dear god why was he thinking this? _He coughs, flushing with shame. "I behaved rather abominably. I do hope I haven't managed to spoil your birthday with my no doubt foolish shenanigans."

Blushing, Canada replies, "Ah, it's all right, England. It's, not your fault, and uh, there's always next year, ha ha."

"I suppose, but still. I'll…try to make it up to you next year." It upsets England greatly that he had inadvertently managed to ruin Canada's birthday, even if the boy would not outright admit it. The poor lad had suffered enough invisibility to have his special day ruined.

"Really, there's no need, England. I'm fine, and I'm happy you are. America and I were worried you might have injured yourself seriously. I suppose we should have known better you'd turn out OK, eh."

"You should," England replies with a touch of amusement. He frowns a bit when he sees Canada fidgeting in his seat, something he is wont to do when he knew or did something that might upset England. "Where is your brother, by the way? From the way Portugal phrased it, I had assumed you'd be coming together." When he sees Canada bite his lip, he knows the answer immediately, and the knowledge leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "He's not coming, then?"

_Of course he wouldn't come_, England thinks to himself, _Why would he? With the way I behaved around him yesterday, he'd probably want to stay as far, far away from me as possible._

"Ah, America says he some things he had to do first, but he's coming!" Canada tells him, trying to be reassuring. "He's just–"

"It's all right, Canada," England says, "I understand."

**TBC**

**N****otes:**

Please don't hurt me.

Oh yeah, that was Portugal, whose name is Gabriel Alessandro. Ahahaha. /bricked. My thanks to the marvelous melliere who let me play with her headcanon. I hope he did him justice. He and England are _very_ close friends. When they talk, Gabriel breaks into Portuguese when he's saying something he feels passionate about, or something romantic. England, polyglot that he is, thankfully understands but replies in English rather than Portuguese.

According to one site, **crocuses**, **yarrows** and **peonies** are a good combination for a bouquet for the sick. Yarrow and peonies stand for healing, while crocuses are for cheerfulness.

**Translations:**

I actually didn't want to add the translations, so as not to spoil things, but I think people might kill me. XD

"_Nunca o deixaste de amar, Arthur_." = "You have never stopped loving him, Arthur."

"_E duvido que alguma vez o conseguisses_." = "And I doubt you ever could."

"_O tempo continua a passar e a passar e o mundo muda, mas o que vos une permanece. Pode tomar diferentes formas e enfraquecer ou fortalecer-se como a lua no céu nocturno, mas lá continua; uma constante na efemeridade do tempo–_" = "The wheel of time continues to turn and turn and world changes, but the bond between the two of you remains. It may take different forms and waxes and wanes like the moon, but it is there, a constant in the night–"


	9. Story 4:5: The Truest Language

I was gonna make this longer, but I got hit by a bus.

**_Title: Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.5/?)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: Because England likes to swear, and so does Tony.  
**Summary:** Last time, Canada and America planned to go together to visit the injured England. But only Canada arrived! So where the hell _is_ America?

**4. The Truest Language (4.5)**

_For the longest time, after his independence, England always sends America a bunch of buttercups for his 'birthday'. America received them with barely contained eagerness, seeing it as a sign of England's softening heart. It wasn't until much, much later that he found out what those flowers meant. The next time England sent him buttercups, America threw them into the face of the man delivering them. England didn't send him flowers for a long, long time after that._

_

* * *

_

_July 2, early afternoon, Washington, DC_

"Are you going to play the fucking game with me?"

Lying in his bed, America continued to stare at his ceiling, not bothering to glance at Tony when he replied, "No. You go ahead, Tony. Happy birthday, man. Enjoy the game."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" This time America lifted his head to stare at Tony. His alien friend stood by his door, holding the disc for the game in one hand, "Are you fucking okay? You've been stuck in that bed the fucking moment you got here."

America waved him off, making shooing motions with his hand, managing a wan smile. "I'm fine. Just a little tired and sleepy. I haven't got any Z's yet, and I still have stuff to do." Tony let out a derisive snort, muttering about humans and their odd habits, and then got out of his room in slow, pitter-patter of steps. America watched him go before flopping back on his bed.

He should be heading for the airport now, to England. He should have gone with Canada, but he got a call from his boss, who wanted him to look over a few things before he went to Camp David to be with his family to celebrate his daughter's birthday early (she and Alfred shared the same birthday, isn't that just awesome?) and so got delayed.

Truth be told, he was glad for his boss's interruption. It gave him time to pause and think about things. _And _I _do think_, he asserts to himself, _I think about a lot of things all the time._

Like if he should really go and visit England. Now that the initial panic over England's injury has passed, he didn't think that it would be such a good idea to drop by anymore. Considering how the old man reacted when he saw him in Canada's place, it would be better for him to stay away. For all he knows his appearance there could just make England more depressed, or more likely, angry.

(But then again when has that ever stopped him from visiting England when he wanted to?)

America wasn't stupid. He knew how England was when the time for his birthday came 'round. He told him so himself, hadn't he? Every year, America sends an invitation to England for his birthday party. Every year, England says no. Sometimes he does turn up, but never stays for long. Most of the time, he never comes, and just sends his gifts through Canada or France or Australia or Portugal. He always calls though, drunk as a lord and ranting about how ungrateful America is. And he's always acted this way, without fail. Like it was all America's fault, like England was the only one that was wronged and heartbroken.

(Which was just fucking unfair to America, just like it was unfair that England goes to Canada's birthday parties every year, and stays there for a half a day; he's never done that for America, even after all these years, after all they've been through. The longest he's stayed in his birthday party was below an hour.)

And now, on top of this, England has some sort of 'mid-life crisis' on how and with whom America's spending his time with.

_Well_. It was certainly a unique situation when the words_ fucked up_ are considered inadequate to describe it.

Who the hell did England think he was, anyway? He wasn't under England's rule anymore; he could be with whomever he pleased, whether England liked it or not (ha, funny how he was thinking of this on the day he separated from England). And as if England even _enjoys_ the time he spends with America in the first place; most of the time they were just arguing and fighting, with —

—well, that wasn't _strictly_ true. There were times they actually got along and supported each other (and not just through government policies) throughout the years after his revolution. Sometimes it could be through something as huge and important and earth-shaking as war, or seemingly insignificant things such as tastes in music and art or literature or fashion.

To be honest, theirs have never been an easy relationship, will probably never be—both of them are too headstrong to fully agree on everything—but England, in one way or another, has always been there for him, not just as a country, but as _England_, as the guy who raised him and cared for him, his older brother, his friend, a constant in this ever-changing world.

He sighed, heartsick. "Stupid England," he muttered under his breath. "What the fuck am I going to do with you?"

_You need to say something about, well, whatever you feel for England. This can't go on forever. You have to make things a bit clear for him. _

_Oh hell, no_. America shook his head violently, remembering what Canada told him last night. _Shut up, Canada voice! Not listening, not listening_.

_Fuck it_. Well, lying here on his back doing nothing isn't going to solve his problems or answer any of his questions. He might as well go to England. Just a quick visit, a hi-hello-bye kind of thing, so England and Canada wouldn't be up in his ass calling him a jerk (hey, if he objected, he could always call out England and say he's just following his example, wouldn't that be _sweet_?)

America gets up from his bed and heads to the bathroom for a quick shower and change, but before he reaches his bathroom, his cell phone rings and he automatically picks it up. "Hi! Who's–"

"America! Where the hell are you?"

America winced. Canada could really be loud when he wanted to. "Hello to you, too, bro."

"Where are you?" Canada repeated, as if not hearing what America said. "Don't tell me you're not coming because if you aren't, I swear–"

"Cool it, man. I'm on my way there. I just had to pick a few stuff." _And deal with a bout of self-reflection._

"Oh, oh. Good," Canada paused briefly, then added, "Bring something, eh? Like a token or gift for England?"

"Aren't I enough?"

America didn't have to see Canada's face to see the disapproval on his brother's face. "Bring flowers, America. Or a basket of fruits. Something _thoughtful_. No burgers like last time, OK? Or anything silly."

"Hey, burgers are totally _awesome_–"

"–bye, America. See you in a few hours." And with that Canada hung up the phone.

Grumbling about passive-aggressive brothers, America dropped his cell on the bed and headed for the bathroom. Now he had to find a gift for England as well.

He could only hope he could get it right this time. After all, his last gift hadn't been that well received.

* * *

_After the Twin Towers fell, when America woke from his coma, he found England by his bedside, eyes red (from lack of sleep, he claimed stubbornly; America always thought they were tears, but decided not to tease him about it, after all it wouldn't do for him to provoke England into his Pirate mode in his current state of health) looking very disheveled, smelling strangely of mint and cinnamon, his thumb making small, comforting circles against the butterfly wing-thin skin over the pulse on his wrist as he held his hand. Their gazes met and held for a few moments, and then England entwined his fingers with his, and gave a firm squeeze. America squeezed back as hard as his weakened body could._

_They didn't let go until Canada came in, France in tow. _

_True to form, America and England both later denied this ever happened. Canada confessed to America much, much later that England barely left his side in those two days he was unconscious, all the while telling him stories and jokes as if America could hear him, and sometimes England sang to him, snatches of old lullabies he used when he and Canada were children to calm them to sleep, and, unexpectedly pop or rock tunes. _

_"_Son amour etait féroce à voir_," was all France told him, a strange, fond smile on his face as he spoke. England made a choking noise beside him, but didn't comment further._

_(What France and Canada didn't tell him was that the night before he woke up, they accidentally overheard England singing _The Star-Spangled Banner _to him like some sort of strange lullaby, almost as if it was a spell of old, his voice surprisingly soft and soothing and hypnotic. America found out about it months later, in a drunken confession from England.)_

_The day after he woke up, England left to go back to his country, but not before giving him a bouquet of white lilies and roses, their delicate scent brightening the antiseptic-soaked room. They stayed in his room until he was well enough to be discharged, and oddly, never showed any sign of wilting._

******TBC**

**Notes:**

I-I don't know if this makes sense anymore. /bricked

My thanks to **kupodesu** for helping me with the French!

_"He wasn't under England's rule anymore; he could be with whomever he pleased, whether England liked it or not (ha, funny how he was thinking of this on the day he separated from England)." _— **July 2** is when, according to Wikipedia, "the legal separation of the American colonies from Great Britain occurred . . . when the Second Continental Congress voted to approve a resolution of independence that had been proposed in June by Richard Henry Lee."

It is also the day of the **Roswell Crash** (and hence Tony's 'birthday').

**Malia Obama's birthday is July 4**. She turned 12 this year. Last year, in 2009 (which when this fic is set), she and 24 friends celebrated her birthday over at Camp David.

Of course, the part where England sings America a lullaby is from an entry in TV Tropes (I've been waiting forever to use it): "_If nations are people and anthems are their lullabies, then here was Mother England singing to her grieving American child_."

**Buttercups** stand for childishness and ingratitude. Yeah England is a jerk, a huge jerk for sending those flowers. It was France who told Alfred what they meant, if you're curious.

**White roses**, like white lilies, signify purity and innocence and sympathy. An online site for the white rose says: "the white rose holds a great significance during the War of the Roses which took place in England . It was said that the white rose signifies death to those who betray their word. This ties the meaning of the white rose to loyalty and trust as well." Interpret that as you will.

England smells of **cinnamon and mint** to America because he, uh, may have used some bit of magic. If you guessed what cinnamon and mint are for, you win Internets.


	10. Story 4:6: The Truest Language

**_Title: Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.6/?)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing: **America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13: Because England likes to swear, and so does Tony.  
**Summary:** America finally comes to visit and comes face-to-face with England in his garden for a visit to the injured Nation. Confessions are made, and England makes a choice.

**6. The Truest Language (4.6)**

_July 3, early morning, England's house _

England may be a horrible cook, but he is a brilliant gardener.

In the past, when America was still England's colony, America often found him puttering about in the garden on America's yard, spade or trowel in hand, tending over every plant with such tenderness, sometimes even talking to them, and ruthlessly waging war against the pests and the weeds that sought to hurt his precious 'children': the vegetables and fruits — leeks, onions, garlic, melons, English gourds, radishes, carrots, and cabbages — to the flowers, shrubs, and trees — roses and lilies, the lilacs and the dogwood. The garden was always bountiful, even if England hadn't been there to tend to it.

America knows from years of experience and observation that the garden — England's own garden, and perhaps America's own in the past — is England's 'Zen' zone. It is England's sanctuary, the place he goes to seek some peace and quiet when he's upset or troubled or angry, where he busies himself or relaxes until he's fine again. It is the place where he pours his heart out and energy as he tends to his 'sweet babes'.

So it's really not a surprise that as soon as he arrived at England's house early morning, after he had put his bags down (and after being scolded by Canada for taking so damn _long_), Portugal (who he mistook as Spain for a split-second) led him to the back gardens. Figures England would be there.

Of all the places in England's house, America (secretly) loves the gardens the most. It's probably the best place in England's house. Maybe except his study, but that's only because there were several pretty badass archeological artifacts there.

England's garden starts out as a typical formal English garden at front, with its precision-clipped lawns and hedges and neat rows of beautiful bushes of roses, wisterias arching over the front door, a thick, fragrant cloud of purple and white spikes. A cobblestone path leads to the wrought iron gate entrance to the back garden, where everything grows with feral beauty — the thorns are bigger and sharper, and the blooms abundant and more colorful, the trees thicker and ancient, almost primordial, branches gnarled and twisted to fantastic shapes as it spread out and reached for the sky — like something out of a fairy tale or a fantasy movie set.

(England said once that it was the Fae who looked after the back garden with him, and they liked it to be this way, so he didn't bother changing it to be more similar to one at the front. But America knows better; he knows a bit about gardens and their owners, and he's pretty sure he's figured out why England's gardens behave this way.)

He and England had snacks and tea at the gazebo (pretty much the only part in the back garden that looked any sort of modern) when he came to visit (at least, when it wasn't raining, or if England was in a good mood), and though he never admitted it to England — and probably never will — America finds few things more relaxing than sitting in the garden sofa underneath the gazebo, eating burnt scones and drinking coffee and half-listening to England talk in his warm, creamy, accented voice as the hours passed by.

They find England exactly where America expects him to be, under the gazebo covered by rambling stems of tiny pink and cream roses, sitting on a garden sofa, seemingly absorbed in reading a thick book while eating a red fruit, looking hale and hearty except for the bandages wrapped around his head and the slight paleness of his skin. America approaches him slowly, almost warily, not knowing what to expect. Portugal glances back at him over his shoulder and meets his eyes, and he smiles reassuringly.

When America was just a few feet away, England looks up from his book, pausing in the act of taking a bite of the fruit he was eating — a pomegranate, he notes absently — frowning when he sees America. The words that came out of his mouth were not the ones America expected.

"Good morning, America," England says, quite calmly, expression carefully neutral. "How was your flight?"

"It was OK," America replies, a little surprised at the polite greeting. He'd expected England to chuck the fruit at him and shout and insult him, as usual. Did the fall damage his brain or something? Canada didn't say in his call. He opens his mouth to ask England, but then snaps it shut. No need to antagonize England so early in the morning.

"Ah, pardon," Portugal says with a cough, and America swore he flashed him a grin and a wink before turning to England with a charming smile. "If you'll excuse me, I must attend to our lunch. Arthur?"

England glares at Portugal for a moment, then sighs. "As you wish. Try not to inflict too much damage to my kitchen."

This time, Portugal's grin is open and amused. "I doubt there is anything I could do worse than what you have _already_ done to your poor kitchen."

England actually pouts and _blushes_ at that. America is more than ever convinced England had sustained some sort of brain damage. England has always been combative over his cooking. The last time America made a throwaway remark about England's food, he tried to strangle him with his bare hands.

"Well, then. Now that's settled, I'll leave the two of you alone." He nods to England. "If it's all right, I'll stop by your vegetable patch to fetch some ingredients."

"Do remember to bring something–"

Portugal holds up a flask filled with amber-colored liquid. "Already have it. I'll see you both later." He gave a jaunty wave, and then set off to the vegetable patch, which was, if America recalled correctly, a few feet away at other side of the garden.

America narrows his eyes in thought as he watched Portugal sauntering over the cobbled path. He wonders if it was a coincidence that Portugal put himself in a place near enough for him to hear any shouting and respond to it, yet far away enough to be out of sight and out of hearing range of normal conversation.

It was probably not. "What's in the flask thingy for?" America finds himself asking.

"It's sugar water." England doesn't look at America, but continues to eye Portugal's retreating back until he disappears past the bend round the huge oak tree, behind which was the fenced vegetable garden. "It's a gift to the Fae who watch over the garden."

Oh, yeah, speaking of gifts. "Here," America mutters, holding out to England his get-well-soon gift. The one he took a while to decide to get.

England looks at the bouquet thrust in front of him with a raised brow. "Flowers. Handpicked from your own garden, I see."

America winced. Trust England to know what plants he kept in _his_ garden. He can probably enumerate them by species and variety. "I swear, if you make a comment about me being a cheapskate, I'm gonna ram–"

"I was only making an observation," England says, lips curling to a wry smile. He looks at the flowers again, then to America, a strange, searching expression in his face. After a moment's hesitation, he takes them, and places them carefully on his lap. He touches the flowers, the pads of his fingers gently brushing over the petals. "Blue aquilegias and mauve lilacs," England murmurs, and to America's amazement, a light blush spreads on England's face, and his smile changes into a small, gentle one. "Thank you. They're lovely," he says quietly.

America feels his own face heat up at the unexpected compliment, and he has no doubt he's blushing up to the tips of his ears. He looks away quickly. "Yeah. Well. You're welcome. I didn't think they would last through the flight, but one of the stewards was nice enough to put them in a glass to keep them fresh. And–"

"The last time you gave me flowers," England says, cutting through America's babble, "was more than 200 years ago. Lilacs from your garden, though they were the purple ones then." England's face got that wistful look again, the one he has whenever he remembers the past, back when America was young. America hates that look; it made him feel like England regarded him as a disappointment, a poor replacement for something he considered so…precious. "You were much younger then, with better gift-giving manners."

Alfred bristled at that. It was so dammed _unfair_, and England was wrong, and it wasn't like England didn't commit his own acts of bad manners in the past. "Oh come on! Please don't tell me you're still sore about the DVDs. It just–"

"–shows how little your administration thought of mine," England cut in coldly. "As if we were some sort of _afterthought_–"

"Don't give me that! You can't believe that crap! Cut us some slack. My boss is new, and he's busy and overwhelmed from domestic–"

"We were your _guests_, America," England said, his voice a whip. He narrowed his eyes, and lowered his voice, perhaps partly out of consideration of not alarming Portugal, but it lost none of its intensity or sting. Around them, the air grew colder, and wind and plants rustling with almost menacing hisses. "We were allies, we stood by and still stand by you in two wars, where my children bleed and die for you, and you gave us _DVDs_. That did not even work because they were the wrong region. Or were to the taste of my Prime Minister, who, in case you did not know, has problems with his vision in one eye. Tell me, where was the thought in that?"

"You were busy? _Everyone_ was busy and exhausted. Do you think you were the only one having troubles? We are _all_ up to our dammed necks in trouble, America, and yet–"

"You're just jealous!" America burst out, fed up with England's ranting. Why did he bother coming here in the first place? He knew it would always end like this. "You're just jealous because I'm the cool kid again, and everyone likes me again and wants me. You're jealous because I want to spend more time with them than with you. You've always hated when I did that, because you know you need me more than I need you."

That was a sore spot, judging by how England went white at that, and for second he thought he would leap off from the sofa and punch him. "Oh yes, you love throwing that in my face, don't you, how much I am politically and economically dependent on you." England snarls. "Of course I realize that I am not as politically or economically important to you as before, no matter how my past and recent government deludes themselves on this matter, and that it is highly probable that we need you more than you need us if we are to have a say in how the world goes."

"But if you think that is the reason why I am… dismayed," England's voice went deadly quiet, the way it does when he was just simply beyond rage, "then I'm afraid you are gravely mistaken."

America threw up his hands into the air. "Then why do you keep picking on this? Do you just _hate_ me or–"

"I don't hate you, America."

That stops America cold. He didn't expect that. "Oh."

"Idiot." England's lips curl into a small, bitter smile. "If I hated you, we would not be having this conversation."

"What sort of conversation would we be having, then?" he asks, genuinely curious.

He snorted. "We would not be having _any_ sort of conversation at all. Or the sort where you'll call me my Lord, or sir."

"_Oooh_kay." That was a bit…disturbing. But it looked like England had calmed a bit now. America took that as an opportunity to let out a sigh and take a deep breath. Dealing with England was could be such a stressful thing at times.

"I suppose," England says suddenly, once again using that calm voice he had a while ago, "it is rather foolish to be so concerned at such a little thing, but often it's these small acts that reveal most about ourselves." His eyes narrow as he regards America, leaning forward in this seat. "I have no delusions regarding my importance to you. But I had hoped I was significant enough to warrant some sort of consideration and thought."

Then he makes an abrupt, dismissive gesture. "But then I suppose I would be asking too much of you."

"Hey, I'm capable of thought and consideration. Look what I got your Queen."

England smiles at that. "Well, yes. Her Majesty did like the I-Pod you gave her."

"I remembered she likes show tunes!" America says rather enthusiastically, pleased they were moving to a more positive topic. The Queen had been delighted with the gift, and she and the Obamas hit it off great, especially the Queen and his First Lady. "Her song with the Prince was 'People Will Say We're in Love' from _Oklahoma!_, right?"

"I don't even know how you found out about that," England says, shaking his head.

"I have my ways."

"Sometimes, you do."

They were silent for a moment, not a bad silence but the awkward, almost companionable sort they had when things went well without them knowing, and realizing this, they have no idea what to do next. It lasts for a minute or so until America blurts out the first thing that comes to his minds.

"So, are you still mad at me?"

_Oh, crap. _That was a bit not good. In fact, that was _very_ bad.

But instead of starting another rant, England merely looked at him, a little thoughtfully, America thought. "For what, America?"

"I dunno," he confesses, and he fidgets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "For what we've argued about, I guess."

"You guess," England echoes, and then he let's out an exasperated sigh. "No," England says carefully, not looking at America. "Not really. I was irritated perhaps, but not angry. Frustrated as well. You have a knack for making me feel this way, as you are no doubt aware."

"...Part of my charm?"

"As for your outburst," England adds, his voice rising a little, and makes America wince. He braces himself for the possible onslaught. "Your boss's decision does make sense — no, he has the right of it. You need to talk more to the others, to reach out to them, especially those you've managed to…alienate these last few years."

_Wait. What._ "I do?"

"Like it or not, you being more engaged and open with other nations does have its positive merits."

Whoa, was England actually admitting America's not all that _bad_?

And while his mind was still reeling from that thought, England then says something that blows his mind away.

"As for your accusation of me being jealous...I suppose I have always been…selfish with you. I have no right to that, not now. Perhaps I never did. And it is past time I accept it."

And then England smiles at him, sad and wistful, in his eyes were emotions America rarely see, and even more rarely directed at him: fierce pride and a quiet, content but bittersweet joy, and that sends a jolt up his spine and his nerve ends, sends his senses into hyperawareness, the way England is _looking_ at him, as if he is everything to him, as if he is the center of his world in that moment. _Like the way he looked at me when I was little, but it's different_. He's not seeing America the cute, adoring child, but the America _now_, tall and grown up.

_Oh_. America's heart pounds in his chest in strong quickening beats. _Oh fuck_.

"Besides," England says softly, and he reaches out and touches America's cheek, the faintest brush of cool fingertips against his suddenly warm skin, then quickly withdrawn, "heroes belong to the whole world, don't they?"

The fluttering heat in his belly at England's touch settles, a heavy, strange weight. America stares at England, stares at that serene face, struck speechless as the implications of what England said hits him.

England is letting him go.

**TBC**

**

* * *

Notes:**

Don't kill me. :meep:

Deepest thanks to **miaoujones**, who listened to my rambling, and ET, from which the idea of the garden I nabbed from. :P

Have guessed you why England's gardens are looks like that?

The reason America knows so much about England's garden? England likes to talk about it a lot (and I do mean a LOT) and somehow the information got absorbed in his brain.

**The gifts:** The British press made a lot of fuss over the whole "DVD" thing, with some commenting that the gift was almost like some last-minute purchase, and thus being interpreted by the British media as implying cooler relations between the UK and the US, though some considered it as merely a diplomatic gaffe of a relatively 'young' administration still learning the ropes. Obama was reported to be exhausted from domestic affairs, hence the lukewarm reception of then-PM Gordon Brown when he visited.

As for the **lilacs**, I'll explain more about them in the next chapter.

**Blue aquilegias,** as the OP of the prompt in the kink meme has said, means "Smile even when you're sad, because the sadness of knowing you don't smile anymore is painful to me." Aquilegias are also more popularly known as the columbine. Some Japanese doujinshi-ka mistook it as the national flower of the USA. I'm looking at you, Koffy.

Writing this was tough. Would you believe some of the lines in this chapter have been written for MONTHS? Guh. JUST ONE MORE TO GO. /collapses God I don't know what I'm doing anymore.


	11. Intermission: When Lilacs Last

**Title: ****_When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd_****_(Side story to _****Floriography: The Truest Language****_)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** The last time America gave England flowers. This was mentioned in Chapter 4.6 of _Floriography_, and I ah, expanded it here. England is coming to America's place after a long absence. America has a few...homecoming gifts for him.

**Author's notes:** This was supposed to be part of the last chapter to _The Truest Language_, but it got too long. Eh.

America is standing in front the large window, dressed in his best clothes, his whole body thrumming with excitement and impatience as he watches the carriage and its accompanying carts below being unloaded of its goods, precious, valuable things, like spices and sugar and clothes and tea, but not quite as precious as the sandy-haired man with thick brows in a dark red coat who was stepping out of the carriage, and then strode towards the front door with purposeful grace.

"Remember, America," Canada whispers to him, fingers tugging his sleeve warningly, "don't ru–"

"_ENGLAND!_" America bolts from Canada's grasp, and ran across the hallway in full, unrestrained speed, and then slid down the winding grand staircase with a whoop. He landed with a solid thump, and then ran again to England, deftly dodging people and leaping over chests, boxes and sacks. England has barely a heartbeat to notice America before the boy threw himself at him.

England nearly topples to the ground from the force of America's enthusiasm, but manages to hold his ground. He awkwardly wraps an arm around America, and pats him on the back. "I see you are still as lively as ever."

"England, England," America trilled, standing on his toes and pressing close, his nose against England's neck. England smelled of the dark earth of his land, mixed with the scent of fresh rain and salty sea and tea and something sweet, like heather honey.

(He loves the way England smells. So much that he stole one of England's used shirts and hid it in a trunk under his bed where he keeps all his secret precious things, and took it out and clutched it close as he slept. Sometimes he even sleeps on England's bed when the loneliness became unbearable.)

Holding England close, America felt heat flood his whole body, and made this stomach feel strange, all twisty and funny but _good_, and it made him want to do _things_ he can even name but could only want. "I missed you."

England's grip around him tightens for a second. "It's good to see you too, lad," he murmurs in that quiet, but fond voice of his. He loosens his grasp and gently pulls away from America, who reluctantly let go. "Let's have a proper look at you, then." England holds him by the shoulders at arm's length, and sweeps a critical gaze on his person, from his boots (_polished to near mirror-like sheen_) to his face (_scrubbed clean until pink with health_). When their eyes met, England's lips curls into to a smile, eyes softening with undisguised warmth. His thumb idly strokes America's cheeks. "You've grown so, America."

America stands up a little straighter at that, more than a little proud. In England's absence, America shot up like a beanstalk, tall and strong (though a little awkward and clumsy — but only sometimes!). Why, he and England were almost the same height, with the top of his head reaching England's nose. "Soon I'll be as tall as you!"

He frowns in confusion when England winces a bit, as if he were in pain, and drops the hand on his cheek to his side. _Did I say something wrong?_ "Not too soon, I hope," England mutters in a low voice. Then he seemed to shake himself and looks at America again, much more cheerful this time. "I bought you and your brother some gifts! And your favorite tea, of course."

_I like coffee better_, was on the tip of America's tongue, but he chose not to say it, not wanting to ruin the mood. And speaking of gifts… "I have gifts for you, too, England!"

And before England could say another word, America sprinted to the kitchens, where he kept the gift by the table. He grabbed it, rather carefully than his wont to do, and then ran back to England as fast as he could, his heart pounding, not from the running but from…nervousness. He'd been planning on giving this the moment he'd heard England was coming back. It was something he had never done before, something he'd only seen other do, and he looked forward to England's reaction with equal parts dread and excitement.

America found England talking to Canada, who, on spotting America holding his gift, made a strange face and excused himself out of the room. America hid his gift behind his back, and approached England slowly. "England?"

England turned to face him, a look on confusion in his eyes. Swallowing back his nervousness, thrust out his gift, bowing a little as he did. "For you," he mumbles (to his feet, it seems), not quite wanting to meet England's eyes, "welcome back."

"Oh." America looks up at that, and finds himself staring at something that made warmth flood his whole body in another a dizzying rush. England's eyes were wide and very, very green, and there was a wonderful blush on his cheeks. His lips were parted slightly, pink and shiny. He looked at the bouquet with something akin to wonder, and takes it very carefully into his arms, hesitating for the very briefest of moments.

"Lilacs, America? From the garden?" England asks in a strange voice, as if there was something stuck in his throat.

"Yes." There is a bunch of lilac bushes in America's house, so enormous they nearly cover a whole wall and doorway (Someone, America doesn't remember who, gave the first plants to him and England as gift, and England, together with America, promptly planted it.) When they bloom a few months into spring, thick sprays of purple, white, and mauve flowers burst forth, bewitching the air with their sweet perfume. "Do you like them?"

"Yes, yes, of course," England says. There is a tiny smile on his lips, and a strange bright sheen to his eyes. "They're very lovely. Thank you, my dear lad. I–"

Then America kissed him on the lips.

(For as long as he lived, America would _swear_ he only intended to kiss England on the _cheek_. But somehow — maybe England moved in the last moment, maybe he did, or maybe the ground shifted or something — he ended up kissing England on his _lips_.)

England pulls back sharply, almost causing America to stumble and fall had he not regained his balance in time. "America, what–" England begins to stay, looking at America with a look of confusion, pupils blown wide open, "–what was that for? Lad, what–"

America could have said, "I didn't mean to kiss you on your lips, only on the cheek, I'm sorry" but he didn't think he should; he didn't feel as if he did something wrong. What should he be sorry about, even? "I wanted to welcome you back, that's all," America manages to say, licking his lips, and God, he swore he could taste England on them, bitter tea and sweet rain. He clamps down that thought and bites his lips, looking both petulant and remorseful at the same time. "I saw a friend greet someone special to him, and I thought I could–" America paused and looked at England, whose blush still hasn't receded. "Are you mad?"

"I–" England takes a breath, and when he speaks again his voice and expression is calm, with a touch of sternness, face no longer quite so flushed. "I am not angry at you, America. Perhaps a little surprised though." He reaches out to America and ruffles his hair, adding ruefully, "The next time you see something you don't quite understand, don't be so quick to copy it."

He looks at America critically, frowning. "Remember this: Gentlemen do not go about kissing other gentlemen, never mind whatever those loose Continentals do. I do hope France and Spain haven't been visiting you. They're horrible influences."

England smiles that fond smile of his that somehow now irritates America. He wasn't such an impressionable child! "You can get in all sorts of trouble with that sort of forward attitude. If there's anything you'd like to know, I am here to answer to teach you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, England."

He nods approvingly. "There's a good lad. Now, shall we have dinner? I could cook if you like?"

America forces himself to smile at that.

* * *

That night, as America lay on his bed, he could not stop thinking about what happened.

The kiss only lasted a heartbeat, but it sent a jolt up America's spine unlike anything he ever _felt_. And he liked it.

And he wanted _more_.

**Notes:**

_**Purple lilacs**_ symbolize **first love or the first emotions of love**. The title is from a poem by American poet Walt Whitman.

America is about uh, thirteen to fourteen in physical age here.


	12. Story 4:7: The Truest Language

**Title: ****_Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.7/4.7)_**  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not my creation.  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** England has decided to let go, and that terrifies the crap out of America. He just doesn't know what to _do_, or what the hell this exactly means for both of them. A chance encounter in the kitchen may be the only chance America would ever have to figure what his feelings truly are, and what he really wants.

**4. The Truest Language (7, part 1) **

America's confrontation with England ends in a cliffhanger.

It went down like this: America freezes (which is just so _un_-heroic), dazed from England's words, his mind unable to form any semblance of coherent thought.

_How_ does one respond when someone suddenly decides to let go of more than _two hundred years_ of complicated feelings and ties just like _that_?

He didn't like this, not one bit, this uncertainty of what he was in England's life, this sudden _displacement _of his place in England's world. The elation he felt when England seemed to acknowledged him as who he is now was sucked into the mass of tangled emotions, into the sudden, dark gaping hole of '_And_ _then what? And what the hell does this all mean?_'.

Then, _France_ appeared out of nowhere, and all but flung his _naked_ self to the England, who, flabbergasted and horrified, immediately started yelling and flailing and would have started throwing kicks and punches (never mind his injuries) had not Portugal stepped in in the nick of time and enfolded England in a gentle, but firm and restraining embrace.

And _they_ say America can't read the atmosphere. America suspects though, that this was done on purpose — he didn't miss the calculating look France gave him a split-second before he turned away and pinched England's angry red cheeks, cooing all the while as he watched '_mon cher Angleterre_' squirm and struggle in Portugal's grasp.

He just hasn't figured out _what_ the purpose was, though.

After that, it was hard to get England alone. _Someone_ was always with him, be it Canada discussing his and England's respective governments and London's current 'heat wave' and debating the need for air conditioning, or France with his unwanted groping and constant teasing, or Sealand's childish nagging, or Portugal being pretty much a clucking mother hen, or one of England's brothers, who had arrived in such a brusque and 'uncouth' manner (England's words, not his) that America feared England would have a heart attack, so red in the face he was.

(It was pretty hilarious though, how Scotland took one contemptuous, sweeping look at England, his dark and abundant brows scrunched together in a fierce frown, and complained, in the most incredibly foul language and thickly accented voice America had ever heard, why there was such a fuss over a minor injury and that England was such an arse and didn't he raise him better than this?

The look of outrage on England's face was _priceless_.

Needless to say, Portugal had to intervene again before England injured himself again. Wales and France had to help Portugal this time, though, because someone had to restrain _Scotland_, who had gone on to suggest that he would volunteer to give England the trashing of his life, free of charge, and then he'll really _be_ seriously injured.)

By the time Northern Ireland and Wales (of all people), out of nowhere (what the fuck was it with these European guys popping out all of the sudden), planted themselves between America and England when America was coming over to talk to England, and proceeded to usher (more like shove) the perplexed England _away_ from America, it was pretty obvious that what was going on.

They were trying to keep England away from him.

Frowning, America watched as England's brothers continued to drag England away from him to rejoin the others on the other side of the room, occasionally shooting him odd looks over their shoulders. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, America let out a huff of irritation and leaned back against the wall.

Well. This was kinda interesting. And annoying, considering that before this, most of these guys pulled some pretty convoluted stunts to get America and England together.

America _does_ notice things, contrary to people's belief that he didn't. He just ignores stuff he'd rather not think about, like this … _thing_ with England.

But even with his determined avoidance, it was pretty much impossible to not to notice something was going on when people went out of their way to do everything they can do to get him and England to spend time together, like locking the two of them in a room, or trapping them in an elevator, and, in one occasion, in a _very_ cramped confession booth in Italy — which was really odd, because the last thing America remembered before that was that they were drinking in a pub. In England.

(He blushes at the memory of the confession booth. Trapped in a small room with little way of maneuvering, and slightly disoriented and maybe more than a bit tipsy, it took them a while to figure out how to get out. And all the while America found himself pressed against England in an almost indecent manner, and praying hard that he wouldn't get aroused from all the bodily contact between the two of them. That was especially hard because a very belligerent, drunk, and uncoordinated England kept 'accidentally' _wriggling_ his fucking ass against his crotch, _goddammit!_)

It's pretty unnerving, though, that the other Nations figured something _changed_ between America and England even without being told about it in such a short amount of time (because there was _no way_ England would have ever told them what happened in the garden, unless _France_, who probably overheard everything, told _everyone _and if that is true America will kill him, 'oldest ally' be damned.).

"It is so good to see England in such high spirits today, do you not think so, America?" a chillingly sweet voice said, ice-cold breath brushing against the shell of his ear.

America tried hard not to jump out of his skin in surprise. Glancing to his side, he found Russia standing a little too close beside him, smiling down at him with that cheerful, but unnerving smile of his. _Holy shit_, Russia was _in_ the house. _How the hell did he–_ He blinked when he saw what Russia was wearing. "Why are you in a panda costume?" He eyed suspiciously the bouquet of sunflowers and the panda head Russia held in his hands.

As always, Russia ignored his badly hidden discomfort and continued on blithely, not even looking at America as he spoke, just watching England as he acted like a spitting and hissing cat from all the fussing by the nations. "He usually is so sad during this time of the year, drinking so much I thought he would burst. But now he is so energetic and, ah, what is your word for it, ah, yes, rejuvenated! It seems he has a new sense of purpose, _da_? Look at how fierce his eyes are, so bright and green, like a lioness's! So determined and focused!" He giggled, voice rich with amusement, massive shoulders shaking. "They call him your poodle, but England is nothing like that at all!"

And then he turned to America, looking at him with a single-minded intensity, eyes narrowed, his smile changing from cheerful to downright creepy with a slight quirk of the lips. "But _you_ seem to be much troubled. That is so very strange; you are sickeningly cheerful when this time of the year come. Do you not often, ah, 'rub it in' England's face how happy you are? It is your birthday is tomorrow, is it not?"

America bristled at Russia's words. "Hey, that's not t–"

Russia cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful. "I thought you would be happier now. The world, they love you again. Your new president, everyone likes, everyone wants to be friend. Now you have many friends again! Is that not a reason to be happy?"

"What are you talking about?" America said. "I've _always_ been well liked." It _was_ great people seemed to be warming up to him again, smiling when he was around, not like before, when he was greeted by angry looks and sly whispers, but he wasn't gonna admit that to _Russia_ of all people.

He got the creepy smile again. "Then why do you look so confused and lost, America? And why do you stare at England so?"

America spluttered, fighting hard to keep his blush down. "I don't–"

"Does England no longer want to be your friend?" When America didn't answer immediately, Russia's smile widened. This time there was no mistaking the touch of malice in his grin. "Ah America, are we not supposed to be all better friends now?" he said. "Though that. Is bad. It is a pity that England would not want to be your friend anymore, you have been friends for so long, but you will have so many more friends now, what will you need him for?"

"England and I are still friends," America snapped out. _Or at least I think we are_, he doesn't say, because, quite frankly, he has no idea what his footing is with England _now_. Or if friendship is what exactly what he wants. Or if friendship had ever been what he had wanted, all this time.

"Ah, that is good then. Everyone should be friends with each other." His smile turned into a manic grin, and he loomed over America, moving closer. "All the easier for them to become one with me, _da_?"

"Uh–" America tried not to back away from Russia's sudden proximity, and instead discreetly looked for a way out, eyes darting everywhere for a way to escape if things go … out of hand. As he did, he caught England staring at him with wide, sad eyes, and then quickly glanced away.

"It is so nice to have this talk with you, America," Russia was saying, taking a step back, finally putting an acceptable distance between the two of them. "We should talk more, my comrade." America felt his knees go a touch weak. Then without another word, Russia put on the panda head over his own head and casually padded to the group gathered around England, where he presented the bouquet of sunflowers to the stunned Englishman amid an equally stunned crowd.

America blinked, and then shivered from head to toe. "What the fuck was that all about?"

* * *

America _did_ eventually manage to catch England alone (by complete accident, though). He was heading over the kitchen to get some water to drink when he spotted England standing by the sink, putting the flowers America had given him in a vase, fussily arranging them in a pleasing manner, smiling that soft, fond smile of his that made America freeze in his tracks.

Then, to America's surprise, England leaned over the flowers, and then brushed his lips against the lilacs, muttering words too soft for America to hear, but the quirks of England's mouth as he spoke told him all he needed to know. That, and the bittersweet smile on his lips. _Oh fuck_, America thought, and he could feel a sudden heavy warmth in his chest, _oh fuck_.

And then, vase in hand, England turned, and he and America met face-to-face.

Not wanting to startle the very tense England further and make him drop the vase and leave (he then had the sudden image of England bolting and leaping away like some wild-eyed rabbit, which was just _ridiculous…_but kinda cute), America, face heating up, gave him an awkward smile, and mumbled, "I'm just, uh, gonna get a glass of water."

England simply nodded, expression neutral, but the blush on his cheeks and the white-knuckled grip around the vase told another story. He hesitated for a second, and then shouldered his way past America and out of the kitchen, leaving a bemused America behind.

"This is stupid," America muttered as he watched England scurry away (with great dignity, though, chin up and back straight, most like with a stiff upper lip). He has to talk to England at some point. He can't leave him hanging like that, letting him go and leaving him with all these questions and this strange sort of emptiness inside him. But at least, in one question, he just had his answer.

* * *

_July 3, evening, England's house_

"I must confess, this is not how I expected things to turn out."

England groans from his bed, and shoots Portugal a glare as he tucks him under the blankets. Darkness has fallen over England, and, after a boisterous day, everyone was off to bed for an early night, particularly the injured Nation, despite said Nation's protests. "Let it go. It's done. I've made my decision."

Portugal smoothes down the unruly blankets. "He was very quiet the whole day after your talk in the garden, you must have noted. Subdued, and a little confused, I think, and a touch unsure. That's unusual for him — he always seems to be confident about himself."

"Hah!" England replies with a sniff. He doesn't need much to guess whom Portugal referred to. "A brief occurrence, I assure you. No doubt he would be back to his old self tomorrow, his stupid, enormous ego intact, if not larger."

Portugal smiles at his vehemence. "Give him some credit. He has been quite considerate today, and on his best behavior as well. Even his gift is very appropriate."

"I suppose," England says grudgingly. His cheeks heat up at the mention of the flowers. If he hadn't known America had no conception of what the flowers meant, they would have given him false hopes, and made things more difficult and awkward. "I doubt he even understands what the flowers stood for. No, he gave me those flowers because they were conveniently in bloom in his garden. But they are better gifts than before."

"See, that is progress." Portugal grins. "He _does_ learn from his past mistakes. You should not underestimate him so much."

England snorts with amusement, but says no more. He basks in a moment of blessed, companionable silence, until Portugal speaks again. "It is not like you," Portugal says, rather delicately, as if words were glass dropped into the darkness, and he doesn't quite know if the landing would be soft or hard, "to give up something you've wanted for so long."

"I–" England pauses. He had thought long and hard about his decision, and after making it had refused to examine it further, lest he manages to convince himself he was wrong and so change his mind. Letting go had been heartwrenching, to say the least. He had spend a lifetime _wanting_ so much it hurt, and then _repressing_ that want to keep himself from hurting, and that in the ended hurting him, too. Letting go was the wisest course; it gave both of them the chance to accept things and move on, unhindered. In this brave new world, these feelings would only be an unnecessary, selfish burden.

(And maybe, he was simply tired of wanting and being hurt, that the long years have worn him out. After all, the heart could only stand only so much strain before it eventually gave out. Surely he would be wise to salvage what was left of his heart before he completely gives it all away. Self-preservation has always been a strong instinct of his.)

"Ah, how unfortunate! I did not think," came a decidedly _unwelcome_ voice from the corner of his room, interrupting England's thoughts, "that you would give up so easily, _mon cher_, but let it be known I am here to com–ack!"

The pillow struck France's face with unerring and deadly accuracy, and he falls down the hardwood floor with a satisfying thump. Beside England, Portugal sighs at the sight of the feathers that exploded around the room, as if a goose had been feathered alive with a wind turbine.

Alas, it was not a fatal blow. "Come now, there is no need for such violence," France blithely says after spitting out a mouthful of goose down. "While it is pleasing to see such mature decisions from you (you make big brother so proud!), your poor judgment in love is an affro–"

"Out! _OUT!_" England roars, fingers making strange gestures. In a flash France is gone, replaced only by floating goose feathers. Outside, in the gardens, they hear a yell that abruptly cuts off into a loud, indignant croak, like that of a particularly large (and ugly!) frog. Unfazed by all the ruckus, Portugal calmly closes the windows, and pulls the curtains shut.

And then, once again, it was just the two them in England's room.

"Well," Portugal says, after a moment, letting out another sigh. "I should–"

"It was for the best thing to do," England finally says, sounding determined, with the hint of steel in his voice. He hid his trembling hands under the sheets, and then clenched them to tight fists. He smiles at Gabriel. "And now, we're both free."

* * *

On the opposite wing of England's house, an ancient door was nearly violently torn off its hinges. "Why," America begins, not bothering to explain why he just barged into Canada's room unannounced and heaped terrible abuse upon his door, "is everyone trying to keep me away from England?"

Canada looks up from the book he was reading _to get him to relax so he could fall asleep_ to glare at his brother. It was exhausting day, with all the Nations visiting England and the associated shenanigans they got into, with Canada ending up making sure they didn't go too far (it was worse than herding cats), and he just wanted to _get some fucking rest _for his early flight out tomorrow.

_So much for that_. He lowered his book to his lap and sighed. Anyway, it's not like he didn't expect this would happen. "No one's keeping England away from you, America."

America snorts in disbelief. "Yeah, right. So those times where people blocked my way or dragged him away when I tried to talk to him were _totally_ my imagination. Didn't happen at all."

Canada just smiles. Ah. So his brother had noticed. "Maybe we just wanted to talk to him. It's not often we get England's attention to ourselves when you're around. You usually monopolize him."

"I do not!"

Canada gives him that Look, the one that usually made America cringe a little, but today he only looked back defiantly. Finally, Canada sighs and relents. "Give him some space, America. You know how he is, especially around this time of year."

"But I can't!" America says. "He–England–Canada, he–he let me go!"

"I know." The look of chagrin on America's face at Canada's calm answer was priceless. "And it's all the more reason you should leave him on his own for a while."

America looks like he wanted to tear his hear out in frustration. "How can I leave him alone after this? I don't even know what he means when he 'let me go'."

"Don't give me that, you know very well what he means. You wouldn't be here talking to me if you don't." Canada stares hard at his brother, who looked at him with that sulky expression of his. _Right_. It was time to get a bit blunter about this. "So what do you _want_, America?"

"I–what? What do you mean–"

"Because you can't go and talk to England if you don't know." Canada took an aggressive step toward America, who backed away, startled. "You've always been your best when you know what it is that you really want, if it's something you truly believe in. England–he–England has already convinced himself that this is the right course for him to take, and you know how he gets when he's like that. He's even more obstinate than you. You can't make him change his mind or listen to you with half-baked ideas and unsure thoughts. So I'm asking you again, _what do you want_? Because if you knew, you'd know what to do."

America took another step away from him. "I–"

"This is _exactly_ why we didn't want you talking to him so soon." Canada threw his hands up. "You obviously don't know what to _say_ or even what you _want_. And if you talked to him like that _now_, you would ruin everything!"

America opens his mouth to speak, and then quickly closed it. He was silent for a moment, as if absorbing what Canada just told him. It was always hard to tell if America listened to you. Then, scratching the back of his head, awkward and nervous, he mutters, "I didn't realize you were all so concerned about this. It's a little…creepy."

"Please." Canada snorts. "We've endured both of you dancing around for nearly three centuries, we're not looking forward to more of that shit." America winced. "I know you're unhappy about England's decision, America, but you need time to think this through. And England needs a break. We all need a break, and _sleep_. Because we have an early flight tomorrow, because it's your birth–"

"Part of me wants things to go back the way things were before." Canada felt a lump in his throat at the way America spoke, suddenly sounding so much younger than he was. "But I don't think that's possible, or even if it's enough."

Canada put a comforting hand on America's shoulder. "Get some sleep, America. There's still time. England, he–surely, he wouldn't change his feelings so fast."

America's lips curve into a small, sad smile. "I hope so."

Canada got it halfway right. America _does_ have an idea what he wanted, but it wasn't something he could easily get. There were still things he needed to be sure of, things that only England himself could answer.

But despite his impatience, this uncertainty, he would give England his space. If that would be for the betterment of both of them, even if it went against every instinct America had, he would wait. After all, as Canada had told him once, he'd taken too much from England. It was past time to give back, even if this only this little thing.

* * *

_July 3, very late evening, England's house_

"Please don't let there be ghosts, please don't let there be ghosts," America muttered in a low, trembling voice as he made his way down the stairs on his way to England's kitchen. Curse his traitorous stomach for being hungry this late at night! Now he had to navigate through England's haunted halls so he could have a bit of a midnight snack. He should have snuck all those chips up in his room before he went to sleep.

To his relief, he arrives at the kitchen without incident, and quickly proceeds to the fridge to rummage through its contents. If he didn't find anything he liked there, he would go after the cupboards. Thankfully, England's fridge seems to be well-stocked with food, though they were more of the fresh, healthy kind. Sighing, he reached for shiny red apple.

And that's when the footsteps started.

America froze in the act of biting the apple, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the poor fruit so hard it almost became apple juice, listening as the footsteps got louder and louder. His vocal chords seem to be too paralyzed for him to speak. _This is stupid, I'm just being paranoid, there's nothing scary about this at all–_

A shadow of a horned creature looms suddenly by the door.

America's shriek would have woken the dead itself.

"What the–Is there anyone in the–Oh. It's you, America." The look of concern (and annoyance) on England's face shifted to blank indifference when he saw him. He stepped into the kitchen, hands on his hips. He is dressed in loose gray pajamas, his hair a bird's nest. "Hungry again, I see. Why are you clutching my knife like that? Put it down before you hurt yourself. And do keep quiet. You'll wake everyone in the house."

"Shouldn't you still be in bed? You're supposed to be recovering." Relieved (and very much embarrassed), but still a little reluctant, America put the knife back where it belonged. He doesn't remember how the hell that had gotten into his hands. "Sorry," he said with a sheepish smile, though his heart was still pounding, and not just from the scare. _Crap_. Alone with England, and still full to bursting with questions to ask him. It was hard not to give into the temptation of pulling England in a tight grip and not letting go until he told America all the things he wanted to know.

England, unaware of America's inner turmoil, only sighed. "Go back to sleep, America. You have an early flight and day full of…activities tomorrow."

"Yeah," America says. Then, seized by a strange impulse, he asks, "Are you going to the party?" He doesn't have to say which one. They both knew which party he was referring to all too well.

"No." Short and curt, as always.

Stung, America demands, "Will you ever?"

For a brief moment, England's face crumples with sudden pain, before it once again smoothes into one of calm apathy. "America–"

The old, deep hurt flares up suddenly, catching America by surprise, and the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. "You go to everyone else's birthdays, you go to Canada's, why can't you go to mine, just like with everyone else? I thought you were letting things go. Why can't you–"

"First of all, I do not go to everyone's birthday," England cuts in. "Second, I know very well what I've said to you, but you cannot expect me to–this isn't something I change at the drop of a hat." America feels an odd thrill, hearing England say that, telling his feelings before have not yet changed. "Also, in case you have forgotten, I am injured, and as such I can't travel such distances at the moment."

"And third," England says, "since honesty seems to be the current policy today, you are not 'everyone else', America. You never were."

America stares at England, who stares defiantly back at him. It hits America, then, why England always acts that way when his birthday comes around. How could have he missed this all this time? He thought England was just being like that because he was petty and spiteful, and because it rankled to the once great empire that his former little colony has grown more powerful than he. Maybe that was part of the reason, too, but in truth–

_You…my rebellion and independence barely mattered to your people then, but it meant so much to you, because you loved me. I was never the most important colony to the British Empire. But you loved me the most. Not as Empire or Country, but as _you_._

And suddenly it all made _sense_.

"Now," England continues, oblivious to America's epiphany, "for the love that all is holy, go back to bed and stop making any more rackets. Or I will kick you out of this house." He turns his back to America then, and starts to walk away.

Emboldened by his new insight, America calls out to him. "England, wait!"

England, now looking very pissed, turns back to him. "What?"

"I–" _Dammit, this isn't the time to be tongue-tied!_ "I wanted to ask you about what you said earlier, in the gazebo. About letting me go. It's been…bothering me."

England blinked and stared at America for a few moments. Then he shook his head. "America," he began, all placating and reasonable and evasive, and for a moment America wanted to _punch him in the face_, "There's no need to be concerned. My own personal decision will not affect our longstanding relations as coun–"

"That's not what I'm worried about!" America snaps. "You–would you stop all this politics crap? I know it's important, but that isn't what I want to talk about with you. This is something more…personal."

"Personal? America, what–"

America swallowed hard. It was time to grab the bull by the horns. "I know you love me. And that you still do — Don't lie!" he said sharply, when England looked like he was going to deny it. "I heard what you said to those flowers I gave you when I saw you here earlier! I asked you a question with them, and you said yes." _Mauve lilacs for asking someone if they loved them still_. He smiled, sharp and bitter. "I learned how to understand that secret flower language of yours, you know, after you sent me those buttercups all those years ago."

England seemed to be stunned for a moment at this revelation, and then he narrowed his eyes, his lips drawn to a thin line. "And so I do, fool that I am," he says slowly. "Now that I've answered you're question, I shall ask you a few of my own, though I regret I have no flowers with me to convey them. What is your intention? What do you want from me, America?"

America swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. But he can't back away now. If he turned his back from this, he may never have the chance again. "I gave you those flowers as a gift to cheer you up."

Which was true. That was his initial thought when he picked up the flowers, which he chose because he knew England liked personal touches in his gifts. The idea of asking through them what England felt didn't occur to him until he saw the lilac blooms and remembered what they meant, and he impulsively got them, wondering how England would react to it, if he would respond to the question or just ignore it. _I wanted to know if I still have a place in your heart, that you didn't hate me. And maybe, I wanted to know if you could still love me, just as much as I seem to love you._

His feelings for England was something he had for the longest time, but never acted upon or tried to name, because he had been too unsure of himself and of England. His questions and doubts were something he would have never asked England outright, because he would have never answered him to his face, but if America knew if he coded his question in flowers, there was a chance England would answer his questions. Even with this idea, he never had the courage to ask, content to wait it out, until now, when he realized, seeing how England reacted to his boss's words, the way he looked at him as he lay beneath him days ago in Canada's house, that if he didn't do anything, England would be lost to him forever.

"Well?" England demands. "What do you have to say for yourself, America? I am waiting for an explanation of what–"

"It's just . . . I don't get it. Why, after all this time, you decide to let go _now_. Is it because of what my boss said recently? About me spending time more time with other nations?"

"We've already talked about this in the garden earlier, America, and I've already told you–"

"I'm sorry about what I've said in the garden earlier, when I accused you of being jealous about me spending time with other nations. But England, my bosses say these things all the time. It doesn't mean that I–that I value you any less, that you are any less important. I–" he fumbles his words again, desperately thinking of something to give more credence to his words, "I mean, don't we still have that? The special relationship?"

England sighs, all anger seemingly drained out of him. "I do wish my politicians would stop bandying that phrase about. It's a much-abused term, and much of it is my government's making rather than yours. Don't lie," England's smile is far more bitter than his own had been, all the more heartbreaking, because America realizes then, with horror, that England has well and truly going to give up, "we both know that the special relationship is bollocks, built on pragmatism and politics, and all but non-existent. I am no more special than any other nation you deal with, America. Haven't your officials said so more than once? And it was time I acknowledge it."

"But that's not true!" He said, surging forth. "There are things that are special between us. I mean, it's not something that's just political and policies and stuff but–" he stills for a moment when he notices England staring at him, an indecipherable look in his face. He clears his throat a bit _don't fuck this up America _and says, "We share lots of values and culture and influences. Like language. Even if half the time I don't get what you're saying. And there are lots of things of yours my people think are awesome. Like Shakespeare and the Beatles and Monty Python and _The Office _— my version is better, by the way — and — and most of us think your accent is hot. Hell, _I_ think your accent's pretty _hot_." Which was true. Probably the only reason he can stand England's ranting most of the time.

"You think my accent is _hot_?" The look of bemusement on England's face was priceless.

America nods. "Well, uh, _yeah_. I mean, I think someone described it as Brie on the brain. Like everything is sexy and awesome with that accent."

"I see." England's mouth twitched, like it does when he had a particularly clever retort and insult in mind, but he didn't say anything.

America took that as a cue to continue. "And even without all of that, I–" _Damn it, why is this so hard to say_. He's rambling about a lot of things that doesn't make sense or even matter at this point. He tries to gather his thoughts, but it all comes out in a rush, a flood of words and emotions he kept dammed up inside him for so long and never thought he'd say _out loud_ but _goddammit, screw this_– "I really do _like_ you. We argue a lot and all and we do have our differences and shit but I _like_ you. Very much. As _me_. Not just as the United States of America, but as _me_, you know. The not quite country part."

England starts at that, his eyes going wide. "America–"

"What I'm trying to fucking say is," America takes another deep breath, _god why is this so hard_, and looks at England straight in the eyes, "no matter what, political special relationship or no, for the longest time, you have always been special to me. You will _always_ be. I been through so many changes in such a short amount of time, and in everything, you've been there: friend, ally, brother, enemy, spectator, guardian. You're the one constant thing in my life. If I was trapped in some sort of timewarp and needed something to anchor me down, to keep me from losing myself and completely being screwed up, that would be _you_."

He takes a step forward and almost reaches out to touch England's arm, but stops himself. "England, I don't want you to let go. I don't want–what I want is a chance for us to something more than what we are now, what we were before. _Better_ than all of that. It doesn't have to be anything political. It's just would be us. The not quite country _us_."

There. He'd finally said it. America had always thought that what he wanted from England was freedom and acknowledgement, but even after he had gotten just that, his heart sought something else. It confused him for the longest time, these feelings, but now, standing in England's kitchen, finally understanding what England's feeling are, remembering the look England's eyes as he told him he was letting go, he was finally truly sure of what he wanted.

England's face goes still and expressionless, but America could see his fingers curl into white-knuckled fists. "You must be aware it will never truly be just 'us'? We're countries, bound to duties and–"

"I know that! But that doesn't have to be something that would keep us apart. I want this _change_. I want everything that comes with this—good or bad. I want _you_." He pauses, remembering Canada's words. To give, rather than take. "If–if you'd let me, England, if you want _me_ too–"

"You stupid _prat_," England cuts in, voice fierce, "You utter ignorant _fool_. 'If I want you too?' Do you even understand how–How can you say this when I've let go? You can't–" He shook his head. "No, America, I will not subject myself to this again. I–"

"So this is it? We're just gonna drop this because it's, what, too hard? We're gonna give up before we could even try? We're just gonna settle being friends, being allies? Or is it because you don't believe me at all? That you think this is some political bullshit or something. That's not _fair_, England. I–"

He stops abruptly, and sighs, trying to calm himself, trying to slow down the frantic beat of his heart before he completely loses it. He can't give this up, he can't lose in this. He finds it hard to imagine living his life without the feelings he has for England and England own feelings for him. He _could_ do it, of course. He was strong enough, and in time, maybe things would change. But he doesn't want to. He never, _ever_ wants to.

"England," he says again, his voice quiet now, but not losing any of the intensity he felt. He wants to take a step closer to England, to hold him, as if his touch would feelings convey his feelings better, because words are failing him. "I know you're scared. You're scared because you think history repeats itself; you're scared because I haven't been that opens with my feelings — you're scared because of so many things." A brief, sheepish laugh escapes him. "_I_'m scared too, you know, probably because of the same reasons you are. But I–" He swallows the lump on his throat, "I do love _you_. It was true when I gave you those lilacs when you came back, remember, when I kissed you on the lips by accident, and it is true now. And always will. So please, if you want to–" _Please give _this _a chance. I promise, I swear–_

* * *

England stares with tear-blurred eyes at America, looks into those eyes the color of the highest summer skies, the deepest winter seas. For a moment, he sees the eyes of the boy he had loved with all his heart, giving him purple lilacs to welcome him home, the boy standing in the endless field of grass, staring up at him with wondrous eyes as he takes England's outstretched hand, saw the purity of love in them, and then the image _shifts_, and he is looking now at the eyes of the man who loves _him_ with the whole of his heart, with the whole of the passion behind of his words and deeds, the man who asks with flowers if he loves him still, who confesses that he cannot bear to see him sad, and is now standing before him in his kitchen, holding out his heart for him.

"America, I–" he starts, and America looks at him with eyes so full of hope, and _it is not fair, too, how could he deny him this, when he looked at him like that_, and then, too overwhelmed, he chokes back his words, and simply _nods_.

Across the room, the grandfather clock strikes twelve.

* * *

They both jerk up sharply at the sound, and looks around, as if rudely awakened from a dream. _Was it a dream? England nodded and he– _America swiftly turns back to England, his heart in his throat, his stomach in knots. The chime of the clock echoes solemnly behind them.

England's face is red, his green eyes bright with unshed tears, his breathing uneven. America is absolutely still, not wanting to startle him, though the urge to move and touch England to comfort him is strong. "England?" he says, his voice wavering, "Do you–"

"Don't make me say it, you idiot." England takes a breath that seems to strengthen him, and he stands straighter, his shoulders squared with determination. "America–" he chokes again, and then, he nods.

America doesn't really recall what happened after that tiny motion, that brief jerky nod. The next thing he knew, he is laughing and smiling, his heart aching with sweet, sweet joy, and England is in his arms, holding on him tight despite his mutters of half-hearted protest.

America pulls away, and, still smiling, he cradles England's head between trembling hands, brushes away the tear tracks with his thumbs, and stares into those green eyes he had loved for so long.

Slowly, he kisses England on the tip of his red nose, then the furrowed skin between his brows, quiet and gentle. He could feel England's wet lashes flutter against his lips like newborn butterfly wings when he kisses him on his eyelids next, could taste the salt of his tears. He could feel the warm puff of his breath as he speaks America's name.

With a sigh, England presses their foreheads together, locks of hair falling carelessly over their eyes. America places brief little kisses on the corners of England's mouth, running his fingers through his blonds locks, and then on that little space between his nose and mouth, and then, finally, _finally_, on his lips.

Their first kiss was the barest touch of lips, their breaths warm against each other's mouths, but it a spark that ignites a fire in the gut that consumes them, and leaves them breathless and wanting more.

Beyond them, the hour hand on the grandfather clock moves a single notch forward.

It was a new day.

* * *

_Some time later_

"Heh, that was totally just like that movie with Julia Roberts and one of yours, Hugh Something, but different, too? You know, like, 'I'm also just a boy, standing in front of another man, asking him to—'"

"Shut up, you prat, before you completely ruin the mood."

"Heh. As you wish."

* * *

**Notes and explanations (and boy, they are LONG):**

NOTHING MAKES SENSE ANYMORE.

And so this comes to an end. I had this pegged in three parts, then it became a whopping eight chapters and spanned more than two years. I had lines for this part written down for nearly _two years_, oh my poor self. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much I did writing this story. There will be others to come, but not all from this verse. To the OP of the original kink meme prompt, thank you for prompting this. It's a joy to write this story, even if at times it _hurt_.

Please excuse my references to movies and some well-known TV shows.

The title of this story comes from an excerpt from a poem by Park Benjamin:

_Flowers are Love's truest language: they betray,_

_ Like the divining rods of Magi old,_

_ Where precious wealth lies buried, not of gold,_

_But love, bright love, that never can decay!_

_I sent thee flowers, my dearest! and I deem_

_ That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words,_

_ Whose music clearer than the notes of birds,_

_Though breathed to thee alone, perchance will seem_

_ Most eloquent of feelings unexpressed:_

**Lilacs** "express the beautiful sadness of love, the feeling — always available to the lover — of impending farewell." In one list of meanings, **mauve lilacs** **convey the question ****"Do you still love me?"** Also, Truman Capote says of the lilac: "The true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilacs opening."

Many of the meanings of flowers were taken from the book _The Meaning of Flowers: Myth, Language & Love_ by Gretchen Scoble and Ann Field. The rest was from various sites. It should be noted that the meaning of flowers vary from place to place and from time to time, so there can be different meanings for the same flower.

**Thank you for reading!**


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